Live Long and Prosper

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.