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contact

by Cassandra Leigh



Everything comes down to sex.

People who
deny this are
living with their eyes closed.
Like small lonely planets, we are spun
toward intimate
gravitational contact, the
inevitable collapse into something
infinitely infinitesimal, reduced to
wanting, and only that.

As time goes by, we spin and spin
right out of our clothes and our skin,
become
naked intellect starving for
resonance, a network
of hungry souls reaching out for
one another in a poignant lattice.

The irony:
of all things we need in life, all things
we
give each other, the ones that fuck us
up the most are
simultaneously effortless and
paramount.

03/07/2012

Posted on 03/07/2012
Copyright © 2021 Cassandra Leigh

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Mary Frances Spencer on 03/08/12 at 07:54 AM

WOW! Definite truth be told here...(-: MFS

Posted by George Hoerner on 01/14/13 at 12:45 PM

Ah lady, yes and no! What we seek is contact of a signifcant nature. And what can be more signifcant than sex? Certainly not always, but the hope is there. You open yourself and I enter you and we hold each other hoping against hope that this will last. And if it doesn't, at least it might get us through the night and we have come close and maybe somehow touched each other in some way more than physiclly. What else gives us this chance when we need it most?

Posted by Johnny Crimson on 06/12/13 at 10:55 AM

Truth on digital paper.

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