no one teaches you the way
a palm speaks to another palm
how fingers learn to memorize
the softness of someone’s edge
we are clumsy when it starts
fumbling like toddlers in silence
shy to ask what feels too much
or not enough in its giving
touch is a foreign word we
translate by guessing motion
unsure if this press means love
or if this pull signals longing
but when we pause to listen
skin finally answers its own echo
we find touch is not the gap
but the bridge the whole time
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 12th, 2025 10:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Such a wonderful write in a sense we so seldom use in poetry. A bit of a metaphor as well. Very nice
Ahaan
great information...
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