The Metamorphosis of Touch

Doesn’t pledge come before promise,
And promise before reward?
And before these must come the hint
The touch before the word.

In the cool of the evening as the long shadows fall
We walk closer in the fading light
Your hand first touches
Then slips in mine
Each finger seeks its mate
As they become entwined.
So innocent an escalation
Which breaths the promise of forever –
not only would you seek,
But more,
That you would hold my touch.
Such heartfelt longings
For the need to be held
And held as if forever.
What are sweeter dreams than these?
To find such heaven in simple pleasures.
I like it when your close.
As you are now.
Is it the soft,
Which seems to yield?
Or is it the touch
Feeling like spark to flame?
Or is it perhaps the step by step
As with all things
The anticipated coming measure?
From hand in hand,
To arm in arm,
To head upon my shoulder
Then your hair soft against my cheek
The sweet fragrance of forever
That the tilt of your head would draw your lips to mine
Lips parting in surrender
Again surrender
The yielding of ones self to another
The forsaking of words
To taste with the heart
Drinking you in
Not to forget but to Remember
Let your hand be pressed against my hand
Like your lips upon my own
Pressed tightly –
Not soon to be let go.

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