The tips of my fingers are lost in anomalies of a long-drawn,age-old conflict called 'touch'.
Do I want to?Should I?Is anybody watching?Would they mind?
All I have to do is lift a finger,and place it...gently or briskly.All I have to do is remain in sync with my tirades of past self-denials and coax myself to walk away...
It isn't exactly walking away from myself.Merely undoing the hopelessness that washes through these fingers each time they are encountered with the four questions.A speck of colour on a grey wall, a face-like puddle of water on a slab of bus-window glass and golden hair of a six year old seated next to me,a dab of magenta in a perfectly green leaf, an eclipsed-sun in a cigarrette butt...
I wish I could touch you,to touch me.
I want to,I should,whoever is watching,minding me or not...
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