In the quiet of creation’s script,
lines faltered where palms met air.
A question hung: how do aliens touch?
And Spock, the diplomat of silence,
searched for the language of hands.
Shake, embrace, pat—all felt crude,
too messy for Vulcans, carved in stone.
Rituals breathe where passion cannot,
and logic pulls threads through fingertips.
The answer lay not in collision or clang
but in the space between gestures.
Two fingers parted, a silent salute,
a bridge built without words or warmth.
Spock raised his hand to meet the void,
the touch of history cradled in bone.
One gesture, precise as an equation,
born from a need older than stars.
T-Pau received it like a hymn,
a prayer spoken without breath or sound.
And somewhere past the galaxy's edge,
where scripts dissolve into the infinite,
a greeting lingers—etched in starlight.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 19th, 2026 03:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, ms.divine
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Comments3
another fine write
Thank You Norman
most welcome
I remember the series and the movies. This formed part of my youth and I remember the hand gesture and its sensuality beyond sex. This write Gray falls at several levels as a memory, its metaphoric message about human communication be it formal or sexual, relationship between others, all set in most poetic terms. It gives the mind pause and in all is most poetic a fave
Thank You Soren for sharing your feedback on my work
Most welcome Gray
Yet another remarkable ambient track !
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