Touch

Pablo Neruda and Frederick Nietzche
Neruda and Nietzche
Using their fingers to ease words onto a thread
Unleashing their private arachnid.
And this spider of sentence makes its way
carefully into a small, round cellar
where there is deep, deep darkness.
In there, as words fumble towards each other
Touching, a little hesitant at first,
Then less so, as they slowly
Touch. Each other.
Fingers. And hands. Lips. Tongues.
Soft. And sometimes bloody. Bites.Sharpnel and tiny claws.
And then, soft again. Filling a pillow with warm fire.Moulding.
Bursts of cradled steam
And sounds of nothingness.
Us.
Word over word.
And each row of these “blessed”-no, “touched” ones
Touches more.
One writes for words to come
The other, for words that were
No words for today. None.
Just touch.
Today, we just touch.
Today.
Only Today.
Touch.
Lose them, the words.
Falling…
Just Touch.
Touch.
Tou…
T…
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