From nowhere, hands emerge.
Each one of them
touches my naked body,
a soft kissing fog,
a ghost touch:
my face, around my eyes, inside my mouth, arms, back, chest,
between my legs, then down, wrapping around, following muscles
from attachment through mass to attachment, toes and fingers
pulled and rolled, the soles of my feet and palms pressed deeply.
I don’t want them to leave,
but they do,
backing off like they tightened,
returning to somewhere,
leaving my body warmed, touched, cared for.
Whose hands were they?
I don’t know.
I don’t care.
All I do care about is being deeply touched.
Not necessarily love,
Copyright © Jack Jordan