The Language of Touch
Beneath that blanket, paper thin, they lay –
six feet apart, a feeling no words can convey.
Connected only by fingers interlaced,
turning hours into minutes, time is displaced.
And all beyond this bower seems to cease,
As cupid takes aim at his masterpiece.
Such idyllic normalcy seems drizzled in lustre,
this love that material wealth could never muster.
Suspended and weightless, it could almost drift –
But with that cosmic force between them, they uplift.
They poke, play, swoon and sway –
in this breeding ground for romantic disarray.
The valleys of creases on their weary hands,
Stretch years and miles as nature commands.
Their grip, though hard, is tender within
but remains tight enough to blister the skin.
Words linger on the tongue but cannot prevail –
the language of touch speaks where words fail.