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
To not be touched
is to bring loneliness,
despair, an emptiness
beyond filling – hard, callous,
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.