Touch
you did not mean to brush your cheek against my cheek
I think

but you did and it was a symphony, a sunken, silken
shroud of anticipation laid upon my shoulders,

a song for me to sink into. Touch can be as loud as sound,
a fingertip a ringing bell, a palmprint a laugh from another room,

your touch is such an epiphany, such a world of its own
such a lullaby of happenstance and continuation,

it was
like this

a side hug, one arm flung, midback, fingers (not long, in truth)
molding to hip, this radical change,

this phase of touch.