How can it be that your words describe what I have seen?
How can the words you write describe the path I have trodden?
Bumps and hills, hurdles, smiles... how do you know them?
Are my thoughts, experiences all so openly seen that you have access?
Were you following, reading minds, perhaps spying or stalking?
Even my thoughts and emotions in precise framing in your words.
Are you me in some other form I have until now never seen?
How can you understand me and know me when we have never met?
You were not there when I lived these things. How can you know them?
Our pathways in different lands, at different times and yet you write me.
How can we share these footprints and yet never meet?

your intensity brought out the wild flowers

i was touched.

countless times, i was touched.

in between my thin legs, i was touched.

you...

you...

you...

you... you touched me.

did it make you feel good?

to do that to an eight year old?

grandpa?

no you...

you don't deserve that title...

fred?

did it make you feel good?

why?

and was that a good enough reason?

to touch me...

your own granddaughter...

you touched in between my thin legs.

did it make you feel good?

to touch me in such a ****** way...

you touched me countless times,

i, your grandaughter, was touched.

i was touched by you.

Drowning in voices
that sound like yours.
Touched by hands
that I wish were yours.
Crowded by memories
that remind me of you,
and surrounded by everyone
that isn't you.
It only makes me realize that
you are everywhere I see,
but nowhere where I want you to be.

The hair on the back of my hand
glistens in the lamp at night
it tells me I am a man
I am a creature
a thing created.
I did not create myself
even though I act as if I did.  

You made this body
and you keep it alive.
When I look at my hand
sometimes it reminds me of Jesus
who was also a man.

I yearn to feel his touch
his arms around my shoulders.
How often I need his hand
on the small of my back
giving me a gentle shove.

When I picture that hand
in my mind’s eye
I see the hair
the veins that bring the blood
from his heart,
a heart so full
so big it reaches to heaven.

It also reaches into my heart
when I think of his first noticing
and then stooping down
to touch the person on the side of the road
the person nobody else would go near.
I am touched to tears.  

That was the hand of Jesus
reaching down as it does now
to this sinner.

Thoughts can be touched from no matter how far.
So think of good things no matter where you are.

I sit in a park.
I wait for a spark.

Searching for something, someone.
Could I see it? I don't know.  
This desire grows.

I look up, it's something from up above.
So I wait, searching, desperate to be touched by love.