two months with no human touch
face-to-face was only if you count
speaking through a screen…
Touch
the half-pout
of your lips
draws me in
like a vortex…
I can live
without touch…
why do we say
we’ll be in touch…
your hand grazes
my waist…
A brief breeze passes, moving the tips of your hair…
Taking leave of one’s senses,
they call it, when someone
is supposedly going crazy.
What they mean, of course…
would you give up
the stretch of a cinnamon roll,
the smoothness of pudding,
the crunch of a cucumber…
I touch my stomach, tracing
the ghost of where
your hand gently squeezed,
marveling that you like…
The smooth cobalt
of a sky you can’t touch,
not so much that you can’t reach
but that if you did, it might swallow
you whole
Daily Poets 