Brushstroke Touches


We sit beside each other

And even though I am close enough –

Should I wish to embrace you –

To do it,

I do not.

And you continue on

Talking of something or other

That comes out as words

But registers in my mind only as distorted sounds

Muffled by the desperate desire I hold within me

To touch you.

I reach out, extending my index finger towards you

And in an act of reconciliation I brush lightly against your skin.

It is reminiscent

Of the way I used to place my hand, as a child, against the

Extending mass of the sea,

Hopelessly trying to feel its heart beat in conjunction  

To the beating of the sun against my shoulder blades.

Then, I treaded the water so very lightly

To feel it kissing my palms.

The ghost of a memory resides in me of another kiss,

At the conclave meeting of your lips against my fingertips

Aeons ago.

This is how I touch you now,

Running one singular finger

Down your arm,

From the elbow,

to the mole

on the inside of your wrist.


Image: PublicDomainPictures via Pixabay

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