Caress

I took a bite of the food before me. It was sweet. It was sumptuous. The alcohol that went with it was bitter. My taste buds were pleased. But I was satisfied only because I felt each bite softly settle on my tongue and each cool sip roll down and soothe my parched throat.

I saw a painting. Strokes and splashes. A startled moment from a distracted conversation when the painter caught something that didn't belong. A flash of sadness in a face contriving to be happy. Furious, inspired fingers scooped paint and stretched it into slopes and curves. Blades and brushes were employed. A face was born. Eyes took light. And my hands demanded to be laid on the picture.

I found a song. I was waiting for it, longingly, lazily. The song found its way to me. I listened. And again. I listened with my eyes open. I listened in darkness. I cupped my face in my hands and listened with the beat of the air rushing in and out of my lungs. Then I listened to it loud. Really loud. It seeped through my skin, quietly surged through each cell of my body and burst against my heart. Then I lost caution. Found myself expecting soft breathing on my back. Smiled as I imagined a smile behind me. And waited for a touch.

We think. We create. Love, ideas, images, music, poetry. A magnificent universe of intangibles. So much of it a collective dedication to a touch. That once was. Or happily still is. Or the dream of a touch. Infuriating hope that refuses to be quelled. Agonizing, undying dream of a touch that might some day be.