Three perfect touches at each distance
A small ambition
Three, and three is six,
And three is nine, and three is twelve—perfection, bliss.
But building touch on touch is like balancing
A stack of cups, a house of cards
Each next one less stable than the last
And tension rises as I near the twelfth
As if it mattered
As if it had significance, and weight
But why? The end is not an end
This a circle, not a line
I touch the twelfth,
Step close, and start the round again
Every touch is itself, not connected to the previous one, nor determining the one that follows. It is only our mind that senses a connection. And yet, why would we seek the touch at all if it did not connect us to the universe in its perfection?
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