A Hope within Reach

The brush of a wrist,

exposed and soft;

a shoulder’s nudge,

playful to ensue giggles.



I could get in touch;

the pressure of my hand

on your knee (“Oops?”),

a hug held a little too

long–and in mixed

company, no less.


Touch is a dangerous

instrument, full of quivering

notes and odd key changes.

What fun, though, to know

your technique and talent

are lacking but still

play on anyway.


The ridges of your forearm

are plains I have traveled.

I find confidence in the way

your thumb hooks

around mine.

No question is unanswerable

with your embrace around my neck.


At the end of the day,

we’re all creatures of touch.

But what about beyond

the day?

There is the carnal night,

but what of beyond

those hours as well?


Look to the horizon

of time and promise

me that I will know

the silk of your tear-stained

cheek beneath

my palms.


Find Orion and, in

his formation, understand

my hope to memorize

the loops and swirls

of your fingertips.


When I have no sight,

no evidence of the gathering

salt at your temples,


when my hearing departs

and with it the crests

of your laughter,


when all else falls

to the darkness of age

and failing mind,

I will navigate my way

back to you,

the pads of my fingers

pressing deeper into the glass

with a false freedom.


When all else is lost

among the wreckage,

I shall know you

not by words or deeds

but by the soft touch

of your wrist.





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