Touch is something vacant.
I remember because I never got it.
It was something meant to hold
Appreciation for achievements,
Or even a simple greeting.
My father had the power to touch,
Yet he never taught it,
Not a simple hand on the shoulder
To show me he was proud of me…
He hadn’t tried at all.
Touch is something evil.
I remember because I had enough of it.
It was something that carried memories
Of gold gilt smothering me whole,
And stamped onto my body.
Boys around me had that Midas touch,
And they abused it,
Hands around a neck firmly
And one around the waist and all over
To show they owned me…
They tried way too much.
Touch is something I hate.
It was filled with ill intent,
Or no intent at all.
I had avoided it for so long…
Touch is something new.
I know now because it felt right.
A hand on my shoulder from
An authority older to tell me
How proud he was of me.
Later, another one to explain
Something I never understood.
Another time, to show he was
Paying attention to me.
They showed me that sometimes…
Touch is something good, meaningful.