Touch
Rufus the Verbose
Seperated by 12 inches of empty air.
Sitting beside you, nothing.
Conversation is a breeze, but nothing.
Where is the touch. The contact.
There's more to skin touching skin, isn't there?
Something about tokens, meanings, nothing innocent.
Does it matter, knowing no one touches anyone anymore?
Where's the union?
I understand that these things can't be taken for granted,
but they're something I've not witnessed in a thousand ages.
One, to commune on words alone.
But finally, to meet where language fears to tread.
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