Posted in art, poetry, writing


Static 	 	 If we moved millimeters we’d touch, strangers on planes forced in proximities reserved for intimacy. I keep my arms crossed, compacted in self-inflicted binding, hands to myself like they taught us in preschool. I shift a little, stimulating blood flow to my tingling feet, but in the move our skins meet, that man’s and mine. I perceive of his flinch, the jerk away masked in the stealth of reaching for his drink, his repulsion of contact, one second that makes me question  why I fear physicality.

Happy Friday!