The Politics of Touch

time withered in my fist. a flower plucked from its roots. the mechanics of touch helpless to cure. all the sickness I had accumulated. 

the predators were eager. swift catalysts in the chemistry of how. 

as the years sunk into my skin I thought that I had grown stronger. perhaps I even had. 

as the winter dominated. we slunk under those blankets. survival seemed an adequate bargain for any lingering betrayals. 

the woods teased their path. the fairy tale laid its breadcrumbs. 

the fever made us sick. and recovery spun its stories. 

love unlocks its cage and we eagerly embrace that prison.