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?
Copyright © Katie Mitchell | Year Posted 2009
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