We have come through time to this disconnection,
this place of resignation that’s quiet,
as fingers brush against skin as a whisper, not a grasp.

This touch grows tentative, a question barely asked,
as shifting fingers brush against skin
as a whisper, not a grasp.

Remember when our hands were explorers of territories,
pressing futures into one, familiar skin, but now
fingers brush against skin as a whisper, not a grasp.

I reach across the void in a moment of connection, surprise,
shortening the space, but the gravity is not strong enough,
just a brush against skin, a whisper, not a grasp.

 

26/3/2025