We begin to touch from fingertips to flesh, that’s how we introduce ourselves. We’re naturally compelled to to feel each other’s energy.
My fingertips are encoded with my identity. They are imprinted with twist and turns, a blueprint of my chemistry.
They extend beyond my reach. Grasping at life, taking in everything it returns. They may be burned while touching the flame or met with warm hands just the same.
My fingertips dance gracefully over goose-bumps and soft skin. They feel the rhythm of deep breaths and skipped heart beats that begin to beat again.
They palpate rough stones in cool river beds. They caress raw edges of ancient arrowheads.
My fingertips have healed broken hearts and past regrets. They mend sore feet and weak spines. They feel for the lone tear drops that are intertwined with high fives and laugh lines.
Like branches seeking light they reach out for love. Past tangible offerings seeking all the things that can’t be touched.