Touch

There are times when words are insufficient measures of something far more dynamic than characters, sentences and punctuation can express. Often a photograph can reflect a portion of that state of being; like a muddy puddle reflects an expression of pain or a window shows our eyes looking through to the other side. In moments, you can walk around and visualize to either express or ignore the core of emotion, thought and deed.

And then there are the times when mere artistic brilliance, intellectual epiphany or empirical data cannot begin to reach the resonance within me. "Resonance" is not used here correctly, but how the vowels flow over my tongue with a dark romance of weighted mystery seems close to articulating my ecstasy, malcontent and reflective theory. The medium of expression I crave is touch.

I enjoy the delicate folds of the fabric lining my room and the forest of crimped down on the sheepskins that keep me warm in my drafty icebox of an apartment. But these luscious textures do not respond or even receive. They are reactionary objects, as are most nouns. What I crave are sensory verbs that live and move and feel.

your handshake that lasts a moment longer than I expect; sincerity.

your caress that is subtle, modest and timed right at the time of need; support.

your hand to hold, nerve endings that meet with welcome explosions; curiosity.

your body that holds me solidly through skepticism and trepidation; vulnerability.

your kiss that explores my mind and soul and I yours, your eyes that show me you are courageous, noble and genuine; love.