skin is so beautiful. skin is a roadmap. what we cover, what we reveal. how much, how little. bruises. scars. what doesn’t heal on the outside becomes a story recorded by the skin. i have a scar on my left wrist from placing my arms too close to the oven. it’s been two months and has looked the same as it did days after the skin peeled and reformed itself. i have a discolored bruise on my left knee that i have spent a majority of my time poking this is about haptics, the study of touch. because skin exists to be touched. there is no other reason why. sometimes a person dies when their skin is touched with the wrong strokes. but then that only means a person is born twice. we become callous as a way of building a wall around our gentle heart. skin is not made of pinky promises, but maybe ones that have already been broken, and that’s why we’re all a little wounded. skin is the outer shell of our hearts. the sensitivity of the tips of our fingers, the jawline when caressed. the way something feels against our skin. silk. sandpaper. an ice cube. another’s flesh. the way we understand language through braille. the way we understand another through the electrifying force between a body against a body, the way eye contact mirrors a colorful sensation. my brother once told me about phalanges and i thought of how useless of information that is, but then it somehow found its way into this entry and i remembered that your skin is a set of piano keys that i want to slide my fingers across until it sounds like a glissando. there are many aspects in life that can be masked, that can be replaced, but we can never substitute the way our body is the messenger of our hearts. we can never.