Touch —such a little thing really

yet the simplest act of hand

touching face makes one feel unique,

treasured, of worth, because the gesture

tells us so.  Touch is an

oasis in a stark, dark day

filling us with essential fortitude,

capturing those moments when

there was nothing left

and now . . . something has risen.

Reaching through all reserves and boundaries

to enter the core of what makes me

fully human.

To not be touched

is to bring loneliness,

despair, an emptiness

beyond filling – hard, callous,

cogitating need.

But for some – thank God a chosen few,

touch becomes its own nightmare.

Nerves vibrate as an overly tuned violin,

sharp, setting teeth on edge.

The act of fingers tracing flesh

can bring bittersweet agony

for it hurts to feel

but hurts more not to . . .

there is no happy medium.

Even the softest of touches,

a cashmere blanket,

silken garments caressing the skin,

the act of leaning against something,

a hug . . .

carry their share of anguish,

sometimes leaving you feeling

wretched, tortured, wounded.

That such a gesture,

the promise of intimacy

between two people,

the assurance of humanity,

could create such a

cataclysmic shift in perception,

gives pause . . .

I miss the sweet succor of touch,

the languorous aftermath of spent flesh

being sated with orgasm’s delight.

I miss the fullness

of being human.

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