Purple is the color of the longing

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.