Touch

A stranger’s hand swipes my face

A buckle snags at hair

As its owner seizes a handhold.

I clutch a sticky red pole as the swinging gravity grasps at me.

It doesn’t hold me in place but presses me into other people’s spaces.

If I were to let go, I would fall into unwelcome expressions.

It they were to wish it, I could disappear.

 

I wait for you to stroke my cheek

Or finger a lock of unkempt hair,

Trace my hand faintly ‘neath the table.

If you did you might feel the invisible line between us

Which holds us closely and threatens to wrap around us.

If I were to tug it, it would twang with a sweet note.

If you were to touch it, it would exist.

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