Touch

 

Glass drips from the outside

As the ice melts within,

My hand inches from your hand

My mind already deep inside

The heat not from the sudden

Plunge into Indian-like summer

But from the churning

I canít stop with burger and fries

Or any mortal food,

We live our lives on the edge of extinction,

Needing to feed a raging hunger

That makes us melt on the outside and in,

Fingers inches from contact we know

Will cause the start of a great cataclysm

Rivaling only the big bang that

Started it all,

We are universes on a collision course

We cannot avoid, with inches

On a table top or car door,

As vast as light years

And yet, closing fast,

The churning inside working towards

That moment when finally,

Breathlessly,

Unbearably quick and slow,

We make contact,

After which, the rest us utterly

Predictable,

After which, there is no turning back.

 

 


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