Soft beneath my fingertips

I sense comfort for a rest

Hard beneath my palm

A support in which to invest

 

Coarse beneath my skin

I’m aware I must escape

Smooth to my touch

You’ll warm, as around me you’ll drape

 

In times without sight or sound

Or lacking desire to smell or taste

Touch is the sense I depend on

For with my hands, I reach out in haste

 

Submitted to dVerse

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