Day LXXXV: Touch

Chest to chest, nose to nose, palm to palm,

we were always just that close.

Scratching at the sky--branches, twigs, sticks clawing at space--a tree waves hello from just beyond the window. A waltz, maybe, or a foxtrot, partnered with a gray, gray cloud and moving to the sound of rain. Lots of rain. A torrent. A downpour. How the buds, the fingers manage to keep up is beyond me.

I see hands in the tops of oaks and maples. Lithe, toned waists and arms in the bodies of pines. Powerful legs in the trunk of an elm. And they are all twisting and melting memories of you. Of them. Of every moment in bed, waiting for the day to turn out, to brighten up, secretly praying that, perhaps, the clouds will linger for twenty minutes more and keep us entwined. 

a memory 

Wine. Too much for the afternoon. Whites and reds, my favorite from New Zealand. 

King's Road. Bustling. A marked taxi honks a warning, steers slightly rightward, curses with its driver. 

Rain. Quiet, but present. Always somewhere. Asking questions: where's your umbrella? Aren't you cold? Am I ruining your day? Did you leave your keys at the library? 

A library. What a funny place for a wine tasting. 

Inside: we nap. Or try to. It's tough in a twin. Stirring succumbs to hands, to locked fingers, to locked lips, to tangled sheets, to troublesome denim. And the very edge of touch, soft, finding a new landscape.  

Hands. The cartographers of the body.

The louder the wind, the more deliberately it drags the limbs of trees against the sky, the more closely it resembles an angry voice shushing the world. Bullets splash against the sidewalk. A draft shakes the room, a door closes. A bell rings. Footsteps. Creaking wood. Repeat.

a memory 

Thunder. 

Thunder. 

More thunder. Lightning. Stars? Or spaceships? Or visitors from beyond?  

You were curious, meant each question. 

Wine. Too much for the evening. 

Footsteps through a quiet, sprawling home. A single room. One bed for you, the same one for me.  

Our bones wrap. Your hand on mine, warmer than a smile. Warmer than your legs, painting the back of mine. Two feet tapping, retreating, playing beneath the sheet. Inhaling, exhaling: noses pressed together. Shift once. Shift twice. Embrace, nudge, relax, melt. Repeat.

I wonder--often--if the memories we share exist with you too. 

I worry--seldom--that they live only in me.

On rainy days, these cuddly, nuzzly, evenings and haunted afternoons, I think of touch. 

And I wonder if touch is doing the same.