Don’t Touch

Oh no.
You do not understand.
Touch is my language.
Touch is a transfer of energy,
of love, temperature, texture,
of life.

WIthout it, I am blind,
lost, and your simple sign,
so well meaning,
is a punishment,
a jailing

that holds me back
and leaves me to whither
like winter roses,
a black corpse waiting,
always waiting,
to be touched.

About this poem.

I am a toucher. I hug. I touch things in stores. Texture. Temperature, Energy. Even love is felt in touch for me. It’s one of my love languages. (If you’ve ever read Gary Chapman’s book on the 5 love languages, you know what I mean. If you haven’t read it, maybe you should. It’s amazingly insightful.).

Below is the artwork I was not supposed to touch. I’ll plead the fifth on whether I did or didn’t. You never know where the fun police are hiding.

Tom