When I am old
and can no longer run
I will stand by the road
when the marathon passes
and offer high fives
for the touch of hand on hand
The first hands to touch me were a woman’s, a midwife’s. Then my mother’s.
Years later after good and bad and right and wrong the touch I had always needed and waited for finally arrived.
Now the thought of your touch still sparks the stars beneath my skin. The stars still spark.
dawn a kiss on a loved one’s forehead
nightfall a touch on a loved one’s cheek
Close your eyes and the stars spiral to their own music, the sky the softest black. Touch.
The tip of my finger touches the drop of sweat from your shoulder.
My mind is white heat.
The tip of my tongue touches the drop of wine from your lip.
My mind is white noise.
I touch the letter your lover sent before you left. I can feel the heat, the sparks on my cool fingers. Perhaps, then, you were right. Heat cancels all promises and trust.
The imagination of the senses: the sight,
the smell, the touch – oh, the touch –
the deep deep stirring words bring.
The curve of the letters on the card, the curve of her hand holding the pen. He touched the letters again, traced their shape, touching across the distance.