[Verse 1] I wake and my body counts what’s missing. No one brushed my hair back yesterday. No one pressed a hand to my shoulder. The cortisol hums anyway. Sleep is shallow, appetite thin, my pulse measures the absence like it’s something I could fix. I know the science — lack of touch shortens lives more than smoke. I can feel it in the ache behind my ribs, the way my bones forget what comfort is. ⸻ [Pre-Chorus] My skin is not decoration. It expects an answer and I keep leaving it waiting. ⸻ [Chorus] I want a hand that doesn’t vanish. A shoulder steady enough to tell my pulse it can rest. I don’t need words, I just need the quiet proof that I am allowed to exist inside someone else’s attention. ⸻ [Verse 2] I scroll and scroll, watch faces moving behind glass. The warmth in pixels is fake; the dopamine comes, but oxytocin stays absent. I know I am not alone in this, and that makes it heavier: millions of bodies folding inward, laughing at the right moments, answering texts on time, while their nerves shrink from the things they were born to feel. ⸻ [Pre-Chorus] I feel my nervous system tallying every day I am left without touch. ⸻ [Chorus] I want my body recognized. A hand at the small of my back while I cross a street, someone breathing near me so my heart learns it can unclench. I don’t need a promise. I just need skin that tells me I can stay alive in this world. ⸻ [Bridge – fragile, whispered] I know how the eyes adapt in darkness but touch does not rebuild itself. It has to be given. I remember every shoulder I’ve leaned against. I remember every arm I never felt and it presses on my bones like a weight. I am counting, I am longing, and no algorithm can fill this emptiness. ⸻ [Final Chorus – full, aching release] I don’t want more signal. I want someone here, in the room. I want my body to know safety without asking why. I want skin that proves I exist. I want to stop shrinking inside and finally feel that I belong.
