(GOSSAMER THREADS)
Somewhere in a tortured psyche a woman's touch exists... A ghost of its former self.
It once held so much life... A man silent sit reminiscing it's demise.
The day it died... He wishing it could come back alive.
To the people passing by he is merely a man sitting on alone on a park bench.
His ghosts surrounding him are his alone... His face is set in solid stone.
His tears internalized flood the canaverous caves of his soul... He drowning in his loneliness... He trapped in the juxtaposition.
Surrounded he remains alone... The birds sing their song.
Somewhere he is in love... Another dimension perhaps. Another planet... Another reality where her touch greets him when he returns home.
In these thoughts he finds solace for all he has here are memories... Fleeting glimpses into his past where her touch was sometimes so soft... Sometimes so hard as they clung to each other in coitus...
All he has left are these memories.
Her touch has become a ghost.
JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY
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