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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

fingers deep

mouth deep in your solid, musky flavors,

feeling—consuming

the warm rush of you.

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