Touching

Walking down the evening avenue, I look straight ahead, and see The sea of people part before me. Each Rushing in their separate directions, not making Eye contact. I want to reach out and feel For myself that they are real. It occurs To me that nothing, no one, ever touches. It is as if we are all surrounded by impenetrable bubbles, And we spend our whole lives Passing, avoiding, maybe brushing, sometimes even Desperately touching Each other— But we never make real contact. Surely we are not to blame. The structure of the very atoms that build this world Betrays us. Strong cores, positive and inseparable, Surrounded by a frenzied cloud of negativity. Like charges repel, and electrons Will never swallow their pride And kiss their neighbor. So our bodies are left hovering Over the earth, our hands hovering over One another, a mother’s lips hovering just above her Child’s hair. Even in our most intimate moments We are all separated by this thin, impossibly small layer Of nothingness. It is cruel, and yet, there are good reasons why We cannot touch. Touch and witness the crumbling of things, As the chasms that hold us to together close And tear us apart. Witness as flesh Melts into flesh into the Earth. Witness as the Earth melts into itself, Into space, into the greater void. Touch and witness an endless chain of nuclear fusion. Witness irreconcilable sameness. Witness chaos. Touch and witness the end of everything That you longed, for so long, to touch. All this and yet, the ache remains. Is it any wonder, that we all feel incomplete?