There is touch
In the collision of eyes in a crowded room
In the unfurling orchestra of taste on a hungry tongue
In the meeting of minds in a desert of thought
In the pen’s kiss of paper prodded in previous disappointment
In the ear’s dance to words that deign to prove true
In the fortuitous brushing of hands headed elsewhere.
There is a quiet contentment
There is a wild ecstasy
Cradled in touch,
Fumbling too quickly to feeling.
It may be for the sake of that moment and that moment only,
But it’s been.