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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