Your hand finds my shoulder,
and the room forgets its walls.
Your hand finds my back,
and the floor grows soft as moss,
and somewhere a window opens
that was never in this house.
Your hand finds my hair,
and I feel the ceiling lift away,
clouds coming in to sit with us,
polite, unhurried, staying.
I used to think a touch was small —
five points of warmth, no more.
Now I know better: it is weather.
It changes what a room is for.
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