It’s that sense of touch,

that traces the scars of love, safety, laughter, sex – the road-map to your regurgitated carol:

Past, Present, Future.


It’s that breeze of a touch,

that rockets you to the stars whilst chaining you to earth with bonds you cling to, flying past a moon that laughs

at the speed at which you race.


It’s that burning touch,

that reminds you, teaches you – urges you – into a manifest of that beauty that blossomed just once:

on that end-of-Summer day.


It’s when you lose that touch,

that the skies grow dark and the earth slips into mud slides that shoot you down to the flat rock bottomless pits

of why.


No more does the lingering touch

nestle close to you at night and sketch the curves of your hips, scorching this moment into your treasure box mind.

And so you back down.


You wait for that sweet promised touch

to make it’s way back with silver tongued words; with salted tears pouring oceans of Never Again.


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