25 fucking years inside makes you forget how goddamn soft skin can be. Still get caught off guard sometimes—like when I brushed some chick’s arm reaching for coffee creamer at the bodega this morning. Felt like silk. Almost choked on my smoke. Christ, I miss touch. Not just the dirty shit (though yeah, my hand’s been busy lately thinking about thick thighs clenching my ears), but… fuck, even just someone leaning on my shoulder during a bad movie. Prison don’t do cuddles. Now I’m out here flinching at hugs like a stray fucking cat. Anyways. If you see me staring at your hands today, kid, mind your business. I’m relearning.