Before the shimmer of colour dissolves into images
& the senses synchronise,
before objects gain permanence
& noise becomes language,
as instinct urges
the first scream of protest,
the craving begins:

to touch & to be touched.

A dream proceeds through the senses,
through sadness, through elation,
through bitter-sweet isolation,
& the aleatory revelation
when first we notice the symmetry
between our veins & those
of the leaves:

the dream
that we can reach out to touch
not just the surface but
the ineffable essence.

Melancholia is our mourning for,
& fucking our delirious affirmation of,
this dream;
speech
is our abstract acceptance
that the dream is impossible,
& your smile is the only reason
I sometimes still believe it isn’t,

because
there are more ways than one
to touch & to be touched…