Tracing my own thigh under my fingerprints
I struggle to pretend it’s your hand,
exploring the soft curve over muscle
as if you could feel it uniquely.
smiles, words heard, words lost, missed
follow the digital map of fantasy
blip blip blip of lost connections
yet full color bravery when we faux-feel
in the overt wanting to.
Sight and sound—those are what we are left with
behind our technology. and these I can doubt
the best and least of my abilities respectively.
pixel by pixel put together by my own mind
I could rearrange them, get it wrong or
customize you to my fantasy
mitigated motion of your shoulders meaning,
quirky tilt of my head subjective
camera eye staring fixedly its fish eyeball on
my mouth tight with hesitation
Guessing what it takes to be 2 dimensional well.
The whole feeling world is encompassed in a baby’s mouth
before the hands can grasp
before the eyes find a target
the lips, tongue and cheeks envelop anything
that might nourish
searches out the feel of a nipple
finds it by smell as well and feels
the warm skin of mother’s breast
to press back against its face with perfect
temperature, hairs, tumescence
and a warm rush that relaxes
putting machinery to motion
glottis squeezing, nose and mouth alternating
breathe, swallow, suck, swallow, breathe
A baby knows smell and taste and feel.
But we, scrimmed by computer screens
are denied these very things, and only these.
The senses which we earned so late, the crude,
the mean, the most debatable, the soonest-faded
are what we build upon.
To be merely visually and aurally pleased is to be fed
“a glove upon that hand” that touches your cheek, but
never the cheek itself.
But within the resilience of imagination
is the truth of courtship itself.
Our secret identities cloaked in
the fertile soil of zeros and ones will blossom nonetheless.
I cannot resent the very tool that brings about
at last, and not a moment too soon, a fruition
when I finally hold your face in my hand.
The five senses will weave us together,
the turgor of our thoughts buoyant and bobbing
as a balloon on a string outside our burning skins
riding the rise and fall of our muscle, bone, lips
leaving me nose deep
mouth deep in your solid, musky flavors,
the warm rush of you.