Your touch on my face. This tremble down my spine. My caress of your own. That quiver beneath my fingertips.
Is this how we know we’re alive?
evening twilight
how many more days
do we still have?
How many more times
will we touch?
De Jackson pubtends Quadrille #195 over at dVerse tonight, where we wax poetic in 44 words—one of which is a varient of the word, touch.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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