RELATIONSHIPS

Touch Me

We give away what we desire most

touch (me)

I’m always touching you.
A glide of my hand on your hip as I pass
or a hug from behind as you wait for the morning to make sense.
A kiss on the forehead — pure adoration;
a kiss on the mouth — always a comment
never about satisfaction:
too wet,
too bristly,
too much,
not now,
okay,
you too.

I’m always touching you.
Words are often my hands when my hands get too feely,
because cuddling always means sex to me —
you say and think and act accordingly.
Can my words find the way into you,
in ways my hands can’t?
Can they blossom like seeds
watered by my tears?
Can they touch you so that you know
that’s all I need
is to be touched?

I’m always touching you.
Stretching a lonely pinky finger across the expanse of the forever between us,
reaching for the…