A poem by Shirley Jones-Luke 

And welcome the goosebumps. As they rise on your flesh. Pushing up into the air reaching, bending, moving like waves of tall brown grass as a crater forms on your arm. Or your leg. Or your spine. Sending shockwaves of shivers that make you stop. Frozen in the thought of surprise. Or pain. Or both. You don't know whether to be angry or thrilled. You just know that the contact has made you realize that you exist. You're real. You're alive. Featured image (modified) CC0: Jonny Lindner (Comfreak)