Articulated emotional redundancy,
swarms of ecstasy threading their way
through the mire. And I
catch your hand in mine,
stroke your palm, and those perfect thumbs.
And dream of the kiss I am too afraid to grasp for.
Negotiated peace treaty,
space heater, Charlie Brown’s
mystical getaway machine.
A spiritual encounter with aliens.
And in paralysis’ grip,
even though I can move my tongue;
I cannot feel your lips pressed against mine.
I cannot feel your hand in mine.
I cannot express the legitimacy of my desire;
Nor can I cross the line,
between your breath and mine.