I live for the touch. Skin to human skin,
finger to book spine, palm to rain-kissed grass.
I live for the unlikelihood that two beings will shift
out of alignment and offer themselves
to each other. You can touch me,
you can touch, I will let you.
You can go walking away with traces
of me on your fingertips, it’s okay.
There is something of the harp about it.
There is something of the trees.
Something spoken and then quickly forgotten.
I am quite in love with it.