Five Senses Don’t Exist

Your body insists

only one sense exists.

Touch.

Your voice is tactile,

waves against my

eardrums’ resistance.

Hearing you is feeling your

vocal cords’ hums.

Your scent

revealing your

nightmare fears

and too much red wine

after dinner last night

now in bed beside me.

Pheromones and molecules

float from your

sweat and your

skin,

tiny pieces of you pour

in

me, sinking like microscopic stones

to my olfactory sea floor.

Sight you say

can

not

be touch

but what may

light be

but photons

that might be

waves, too,

that bounce… touch… hit… et cetera

my retina.

Contact.

Exact, perfect,

almost as unremarkable

as

any random connection,

except that each of the two

touching points

so

infinitesimal.

A photon bouncing off you

drawn

anon

on and on

into, no, onto

the photoreceptors of my

eye.

I

can not see you

unless light sizes

you up and bounces off you

and into my eyes

and my eyes are me.

Something touches me is how we see

each other. The space between us

is not empty. It is energy or

ether. Imagine the sea

we swim in

in summer.

The air is filled with water.

By far, we

believe our sight is true:

I see you

so you must be who

I always knew

you to be:

a flawed form of beauty,

the only kind there is,

just the way your hair is,

bed-messy and recently washed,

skin pale and freckled,

fairy-tale pretty,

brown eyes, sand-

and-

honey-speckled …

But all these are lies

my brain believes

because it can barely understand

you are light

particles

bouncing off you into my eyes,

green, or so you conceive.

And taste…

taste is clearly touch.

Gustation needs no

explanation.

Does it?

My lips and tongue

are really much more

just skin and fingers,

right? Such

an idea can not be

hard to grasp.

Taste me, touch me, touch me,

taste me.

My ears are me.

My eyes.

The breath I breathe brings you inside me.

Tasting you is touching you.

All touch.

Like my hands on you

Your neck, your head,

beside me

now

in

bed.