your touch was poetry
in a language I can't read anymore
I still feel it in the core of my bones
the lines and shadows of each letter
drawing out a standing ovation
I had never felt freedom from my mind
you showed me how I could let go
held me in a way that led me to believe
I would be okay somehow
because you'd catch me if I fell
gentleness and death in your eyes
now you speak and your words
disappear in the air before reaching me
on the other side of the room I see
your lips and hands move but can't
make out the sounds or shapes you take on
so I watch the way you create poetry
like looking at pictures in a book
when you touch someone else
in the language we once spoke