“Hello.”
We stand in the shadow of a handshake–
That most strange salutation of an outstretched, peaceful hand.
That with which we poke and grasp our way through this hazardous coil,
With our arms outstretched before us like inquisitive children.
As though to say: “What is a friend,
If not someone with whom you would trade the many relics of a day lived
And gladly fight each microscopic battle that ensues.”
All for the reassuring clasp of skin upon embattled skin.
But here we stand in its chill absence.
It is painfully implied,
As it dances on that barrier held between us with the power of will.
It mocks the calculating mind with its impossible, prohibited simplicity.
–
“Hello x”
Our new lovers are taunted by apparitions on small screens.
The walls of their rooms, dark in those illicit hours of romance,
Are danced upon by the haunting shadow of a kiss,
Which might yet lead to nought.
I know we can talk,
But what weight is conveyed by the pressing,
Of skin on tender skin.
–
“Hello.”
Upon returning home, a mother and child cannot unite,
Until she scrubs the passengers from her longing arms–
Those unthinking specs, who enjoy the touch that they deprive.
The shadow of an embrace lingers in the doorway–
An awkward guest–
And hovers where patient children sit.
Just wait– let me renounce these words and cool the sting
Of distance, through the touch of skin on tender skin.
Uncultured Review 