The forgotten loss

is worse than dying,

to find touch has become

something of a dream

that never occurred.

I marvel at the feeling

of skin, in the bath,

my fingertips touching me,

is the only connection.

 

I have visceral reactions

to handshakes

from attractive opposites.

Hugs linger, held

in the memory of a moment.

Body parts brushed

against limbs

covered and warm

soft and pressed.

 

The glimpse of upper thigh

the small of a back

the lace of undergarment

never fully exposed, enchants.

Slipped buttons

allow a peekaboo glimpse

into the nether regions

the fabric of the mind wanders

down the wonders of that road,

traveling to destinations

once remembered,

now forgotten and unknown.

 

Slip into the cold bed,

clutch the pillow at night

throw the leg over to snuggle

into the imagined warmth

of a companion.

The light feel of sheets

caressing on skin, sooths

but every morning

the warmth of a bed

still feels cold

when you’re alone.

 

In the softest moment

of a quiet night,

there are those who wake

to the imagined memories

of body limbs,

wrapped around finger tips.

The tongue and cheek exploration

of a soft beating landscape.

 

Long ago feels like forever

when hands massaged backs,

afraid the feeling

will never be again.

The consideration

is if this last hope ends

so too will life’s meaning.

 

In the lingering of aloneness,

memories are being lost

and though the brain dulls,

the skin remembers.

It considers

the caressing connection of touch

and holds true,

the memory of humanity.

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