untitled

don’t touch me
don’t try to touch
the living part

it is only the span of a palm
the width of four fingers

what can four fingers do?
in an ocean that wraps upon itself?

we always hope for “what it could be”
envisioning monet while seeing de kooning
we like to think we’re complex

but it is much more simple
all we lack is a touch

words can’t quite explore
the grace of skin, the warmth of blood
waiting just below the surface