Stories are told through skin. Love. Murder. Betrayal.
The tongue that moves in a lie. The solid fist that slams into a cheekbone and leaves a purple bloom. The feet that walk to the corner, climb the steps to the bus. The irises that watch the houses and fields pass mile after mile. The hands that won't answer the phone. The mouth that won't let the vibration of your name move over its soft pink throat.
It's not lofty ideas and fancy words. It's all skin.
I need to be reminded of this over and over. Stories are told through skin. The boundary that holds me in, that keeps me from being a chair, a mountain, a plate of spaghetti. That keeps me from being you.
That's how stories are told.