deepundergroundpoetry.com
Synesthetica, Part III (Tactus)
iii. tactus (touch)
the last bow
of Summer
peeking
from behind
dissipating clouds,
caressing
my face
with warmth;
pulling at
the corners of
my mouth,
he begs
for a smile
as Autumn
blows across
my skin,
commanding
my flesh
to rise
in standing
ovation;
I give myself
over to the will
of primal urges,
sensing
every follicle’s
deep curtsy,
my lips curving
upward, despite
my reluctance;
I give them
both
what they
ask for
(memories)
your hand,
in mine
for
the first time -
a spark as old
as every love
ever spoken
aloud
traveling
the length
of my arm,
finding
its resting place
in my chest;
you always
called
it lightning,
and that moment
of impact
couldn’t be
any closer
to truth
I make my way
to the door
of the old
shop,
lest I find
myself, alone
reminiscing
about that
first kiss
again;
the sturdy
brass knob
feels heavy,
though I’m not
the one
bearing its weight;
he has stories
to tell,
but I’ve got
no time
for tales
today,
I’ve far too many
of my own
clamoring
for my attention
wood planks
with their gloss
long gone
creaking
beneath my feet,
spongy steps
bringing me
to a full stop
in front
of ancient texts;
handmade paper,
its rough-smooth
texture
gliding beneath
curious fingertips,
transferring
every word
to memory
as they each
put on
rousing performances
from age-stained
parchment,
as if there was
a spell
to bring you back
to me
the last bow
of Summer
peeking
from behind
dissipating clouds,
caressing
my face
with warmth;
pulling at
the corners of
my mouth,
he begs
for a smile
as Autumn
blows across
my skin,
commanding
my flesh
to rise
in standing
ovation;
I give myself
over to the will
of primal urges,
sensing
every follicle’s
deep curtsy,
my lips curving
upward, despite
my reluctance;
I give them
both
what they
ask for
(memories)
your hand,
in mine
for
the first time -
a spark as old
as every love
ever spoken
aloud
traveling
the length
of my arm,
finding
its resting place
in my chest;
you always
called
it lightning,
and that moment
of impact
couldn’t be
any closer
to truth
I make my way
to the door
of the old
shop,
lest I find
myself, alone
reminiscing
about that
first kiss
again;
the sturdy
brass knob
feels heavy,
though I’m not
the one
bearing its weight;
he has stories
to tell,
but I’ve got
no time
for tales
today,
I’ve far too many
of my own
clamoring
for my attention
wood planks
with their gloss
long gone
creaking
beneath my feet,
spongy steps
bringing me
to a full stop
in front
of ancient texts;
handmade paper,
its rough-smooth
texture
gliding beneath
curious fingertips,
transferring
every word
to memory
as they each
put on
rousing performances
from age-stained
parchment,
as if there was
a spell
to bring you back
to me
Published 18th Sep 2020
Author's Note
A work in progress (part 3 of 6).
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 6
reading list entries 4
comments 12
reads 196
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
19th Sep 2020 00:15am
oOF! Well done evocation of memory, Luna. I'll have to check back in the future to see if you've revised any.
19th Sep 2020 6:22am
19th Sep 2020 2:11pm
And just to clarify my response, it's difficult for me to fully comment when the author is still in the "revision" process! I don't want to influence that process. But I do look forward to seeing where you end up when this series is finalized!
20th Sep 2020 9:05pm
20th Sep 2020 3:38am
A beautifully reminiscent piece... I'm thoroughly enjoying the 'series'. Wonderful memories, and great writing, Luna ❤️
20th Sep 2020 3:46am
20th Sep 2020 10:22am
So 1 was a cascade of sight,
2 was rhythm, sound
3 is the weight and depth of breath
Anticipation, temptation, imagination where depth crept with bredth
But in a classically Moonspirit steelio so that momentous pace of talking with hands-touching-my-chest is kept low, fully present, but temperate.
Seconds stretched. Keep unwinding the time ribbon, Moonspirit. It's good to share your trip
2 was rhythm, sound
3 is the weight and depth of breath
Anticipation, temptation, imagination where depth crept with bredth
But in a classically Moonspirit steelio so that momentous pace of talking with hands-touching-my-chest is kept low, fully present, but temperate.
Seconds stretched. Keep unwinding the time ribbon, Moonspirit. It's good to share your trip
20th Sep 2020 9:04pm
22nd Sep 2020 00:44am
Dear L,
For me the beauty of this piece immediately reminded me of meeting my baby nephew for the first time and that tiny grab of his hand on my finger. I’m very much enjoying my parallel journey through yours. Lovely. H🌷
For me the beauty of this piece immediately reminded me of meeting my baby nephew for the first time and that tiny grab of his hand on my finger. I’m very much enjoying my parallel journey through yours. Lovely. H🌷
22nd Sep 2020 4:53am
I love that poetry can bring those emotions to the surface and allow us to connect in an almost spiritual way through another person’s words and experiences. Thank you so much for sharing my journey 💖.
26th Sep 2020 4:51am
26th Sep 2020 4:53am
