Your hand upon my face
Is a balm to my soul.
Each gentle caress
Speaks so loudly that
My cheek tingles long after
Your touch moves on.
You see me with the tips of your fingers.
With my voice, my words,
I paint the world in the colours and imagination
Of a visual childhood you scarcely recall.
Each phrase feeds your senses;
A verbal texture to the unknown.
Yet, after your touch,
My words seem inadequate.
You see me as others before never did before.
Perhaps, though
They never really opened their eyes,
Never really saw,
And in that not-seeing world, missed everything.
You see me, with the caress of your hand.
And in that caress, I finally see myself.