Touch

Lovers dream of cuddling,

laying flat under the sky,

hand to chin, chin to wrist,

eyes never opening to harsh light,

feet caressing toes

among the daisies sway.

 

In the past they loved erect,

pulling close in multicolor hugs,

their hands around waist

in almost interlocking circles

hoping for the full union

of own fingers completing the loop.

 

Now they can only exist back to back,

swooning blind in the sensation of their spines,

daring not the turnaround to face to face,

the desire to complete the geometry of touch,

less they evaporate in the heat killing the world,

the thirsty tall trees reporting their desire.

 

They slump in their green-white lawn chairs

spaced  exactly six feet apart, masks on,

only their silhouettes connecting in shadow play,

speaking dirty and sweet desires to the umbra,

the blackness marrying, impregnating,

rearing their shadowy children in its full shade.

 

They wonder if you make the other unreal

are they still alive?  Is it the shadow they love?

Is it the corpse, the gravity of flesh gone cold,

that tugs them insanely towards each other?

Wonder what is the perfect distance between

object person and person object?

 

They know they can always close their eyes and

create a world better than what they have.

Thus they make an unspoken marriage

that fits the blank spaces between the other

so that when the isolation ends, they can

dance close, kiss, maybe make themselves

real enough for the other to find.