Touch.

Transparent is the touch felt with greatest intensity.

The sun’s rays tattooing heat onto skin at high noon, or 
a gentle breeze swaying up and down one’s spine, 
lifting a strand or two up and over a thousand times, 
a welcome tickle.

By the seaside, shifting sand so fine,
the particles go unnoticed racing through the air, 
yet a layer of gritty golden dust, in extant exposure,
scratches every ounce of exposed flesh —

much like the

space

between 
eyes 
and 
limbs 
and 
fingertips —

rivers of atoms dancing, 
intercepting two heartbeats
jolting concealed currents 
in all directions

viciously hot, like the sun,
sweetly gentle, like the breeze,
rough in its repetition, like the sand.