to miss the way,
in a fragility of mind.
how a kiss strikes hard as impression
but soft as tactile could be.
maybe by warmth,
certainly by contact,
yet stored as graphic memory.
how being touched
creates its own font of embrace.
where pressure and coverage work together,
to enunciate past what lingering offers,
to parade upon the street of skin,
yet creates new pathways of presence.
oh, for the want of breath nearby,
as audience to a symphony of self.
for the song of self,
as if it were as real as my hearing it is.
that one wears the shoes of lips
and dances on my skin, as floor,
as quietly pronouncing.
my floor has attempts at embrace.
this is how the stoic of me
ventures at a heart-rise.
there is a ripeness of silence.
unspoken speaks unheard.
thoughts wiz by,
faster than recognition's certainty.
composition has more dimensions
than mindfulness can grasp.
but for the feel,
I would have been only imagining.
think of me,
as before the kiss,
before the touch,
as if an ink of forthcoming destiny . . .
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