Touching deeper than the dead cells of a skin,
stroking more than the dead hair on a head;
we can’t seem to accomplish.
What do we know of one another?
Your eyes tell me about lives you lived,
or what has happened since your youth
but it might be that I just think so.
All that we know of each other
is dead skin and hair,
movements that are getting older,
and spoken words, already skeletons of ideas,
making up lies or what we see as truth.
Sometimes we touch without feeling
and some angels never land on a shoulder.