Thinking about Surfaces

I reach down to the water I see in the stream, 
for the soft drops of water that rest delicately on stones. 
I scratch my hand as it bristles through brambles 
I ache for my reach to find touch…

In the abrasion I notice a change in the stream 
In the current 
I stop. 
I search for a smell and recall breathing. 
A heat plays close upon my lips, 
and around my neck 
And aahh… a warmth
all over my face. 

But still. 
No breathing, 
neither blood 
nor even a graze to my hand. 
Nothing I realise, 
all surfaces are lost, 
again vanished 
perhaps never there at all 

I think about surfaces again 
about touching things 
like animals 
hair and skin. 

Actions of stroking
of suffocating affection 
and I remember poor old Lenny from of Mice and Men. 
I remember childhood stories because I’m tired of reading 
so many words on screens, 
overwhelming information.

I prefer children’s stories 
and they too like me 
we like to imagine.

I think about surfaces again, and I think because I want to feel. 

This time the surfaces are cold and scaly 
like the side of a fish 
that slaps 
and slides down my cheek 

sounds resonate inside me
echoing eerie vibrations 
up and down my spine. 

Like a fog they vaguely gather 
seeking out hollow spaces, 
through my lungs 

I feel a cold speckling frost 
take grip 
and DO NOT leave

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