Touching and Talking

Touch­ing and talk­ing
that’s what our time is,
touch­ing and tuck­ing up fuck­ing
oh and then we talk, we talk about and out and around it. touch­ing and talk­ing
remem­ber when I would wear noth­ing but bell­bot­tom jeans and
they were pepetu­ally get­ting chewed by cogs on my bicycle
and I always had rub­ber bands around my ankles to hold them back
rub­ber bands all over my floor
I never wear jeans any more, now.
I’m wear­ing your dress which came from her and it never felt like my kind of dress, or like I even wanted it untill tonight when I saw it, cos it’s green and I knew and I’m wear­ing it and I don’t feel like that per­son, in the jeans, any more.
And there are people here who I want to touch
and there are people here who want to touch me
there are people here who are touch­ing and talk­ing
there’s a pretty girl, I’ve for­got­ten her name because there are other people who I want to touch talk to
remem­ber when we made that list
who am I kid­ding, we make lists all the time
remem­ber when we first shared clothes
iten­er­ant desires, an order­ing to the mess of want, lists
remem­ber when we first shared clothes, cos I don’t
shar­ing skin, sis­ters, cloth-of-kin
remem­ber when we first for­got where your ward­robe ends, and mine begins
because life is a nos­tal­gia fact­ory
sit fat on a pile of memor­ies
but, why­for for what
liv­ing in the past tense
but I want to touch
and touch­ing is now
fuck­ing is now
speak­ing poems is now
reach­ing with words and fin­gers and hearts to touch the now

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