The Touch

Michelangelo knew
How it all started
The hands suspended
A fraction before
The fingertips met
The space in between
Pregnant with
A world waiting to burst
And then…
morning sunshine filtered through the closing lashes; wet embrace of the splashing waves; minty snowflakes melting on the steaming tongue; feather-light lady bug strolling round the palm; wounded fingertips sliding down the guitar strings; perfect hands like birds fluttering around the cello; strand of hair slowly blown across the forehead by a breeze; delicate earring swaying slightly against the ear-shell; cascade of piano keys like the waltz of fingers on the skin; the feel of muscles, taught and pulsating; tender tracing of the curves, electric surface next to surface; ripples of current against the body under water; sunmagma spilling through the treetops; murmuring of birch leaves in the wind; tall summer grasses caressing the face; naked foot kissing the round pebbles; moist footprint in the hot sand; salty teardrop journeying down the vastness of the face; explosion of honey-sweetness on the taste buds; luxuriant smell of coffee on a Sunday morning; glossy smoothness of wild chestnuts lying on the ground; roughness of tree bark underneath fingers; softness of billowing clouds in the blue bowl above; weightless bones of a body sweeping through the air on a swing; acoustic resonance of a crystal voice; shrill note sustained in the ether; hot breath on the side of the neck; whispering of stars, fizzing of comets, gasping of blood, surrender of eyes, drumline of heartbeat
verifying presence, throbbing
in the tip
of the finger