Purple is the color of the longing,
tucked into the folds of pulpy organs
soft and vulnerable.
A finger could pierce like a bullet
this swollen pulse.
An uncaring touch would tear to pieces
the soft fiber of its nest.
Defenseless it hides
in the soft warm dark
safe and alone,
and dreams silently
of the most gentle hands,
hands that part the flesh with trembling care
inching open the egg,
hands that breathe,
warm and moist,
attentive to the quietest heartbeats,
slow patient hands that touch
with no shadow of demand,
fingers that explore hinted textures
radiating wonder and discovery,
bridges delicate enough to join
one time
under the noise of aching lives
the being of one
with the presence of another.
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