Touch

An imperceptible breeze that not so much wrinkles the leaves, but shimmers  in so tiny a movement not to be noticed but for the afterthought, you enter my dreams, not to rest, but to remind, alight, then pass; you are smaller in my arms than I recalled.

This path circles, wanders off into the busy-ness of life and returns, weighed down in undeserved silence and worry, returns without touch.

These thoughts are not touch, these characters not sensation, but notions needing weight.

They are not your hand in mine, your shoulder on my chest, my hand flat on your belly; are not a breath on your neck, the clutch of your hair, a tangled smile.

These little nicks heal, the depth of your eyes a surprise.

They are not the things that linger; only touch lingers.

A kiss along your spine, hands clenched, your soft mouth, a teasing tongue, head on your chest listening to your beating heart, the silence of that closeness. A finger circling once, twice; that place you draw me away from the whisperings.

Touch is taste.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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