The Art of Touch

I enjoy the wind. It’s a lust filled element. Forever lonely, eternally needing solace in all it touches. And how she dances. Formless. Unable to be tamed. I admire it so.

Downtown on cobblestone streets, I walk, and on occasion turn my palms out, feeling wind, being touched. Sometimes I long for a hand to hold. To feel fingertips slide down, skin-to-skin, a connection in small action.

Reach for me, I’m asking, reach for me…

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This entry was published on August 24, 2008 at 3:46 am. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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