Contact

The telescope points out into the sky
Tuned towards frequencies far back in time
Tracing a trembling pattern in ink
Awaiting the first touch
Of contact.

The spark of love
The comfort of feeling
Delicious anticipation of fingers to skin
Awaiting the first touch
Of contact.

These words don't mean
What you seem
To think that they do.

The drum machine circles his appointed rounds
The webcam records an empty room
Guitars in stands, shakers without hands
Awaiting the first touch
Of contact.