TOUCH

SOURCE

A faint touch to the lapels of my soul,
Feathery,
Hardly perceptible,
Havoc across my incoherence.

I try to see through the restraints of the hypnotism,
Soon to fail,
That cloud my words, 
Leaving my tongue in a tango of its own,
Making me fall short of my senses
I must need to hold myself, and gasp for breath.
I can’t.

I won’t.
I fall short desperately.

The touch I know about,
The touch that makes me know,
Diffident in its standing,
Yet materialising beyond my grief,
I am coaxed out of my misery.

Unsure in my pushing,
With hands used to daub tears,
The fervor of the touch
Comes as light to my ignorance,
Pertinence to my illusions.

The purported jargon
Of the touch
Creeps up my nerves,
Clicks below my conscience;
Its anchor will hold in my soul.

For my soul the touch must hold dear
To effect this dawn upon my emptiness.
The noise of the touch,
The feel of its prelude,
Makes me shiver.
Makes me want.

Touch me.

Touch me and you will know
How I feel,
How I rake through my days
In slots of desperate loneliness,
How my chasms are big,
Getting bigger each day;
That I believe you,
That I believe in you.

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