Sense Of Touch

Carry pieces of me
with you,
but never in the cool, calm corners.

Bear me wherever you find life;
In moist, warm spots that breathe.

I want to dribble from you like
ripened peach juice;
sting as sweat
coursing down your cheek.

I need to be what you
find pride
or shame in. Someone who makes you feel
something
whether you fly or fall.

We are composed too much of
reflection and so near lost.

I am still
and cold in the glass but reaching
as you waver
on the edge of sight.

There is still time.