If I touched you, would you tell?
I hold my breath
I hold my tongue
for I dare not ask this, dare not do this
not now, while the answer must be No, while we must be shamed into silence, while we must fear the screams of
the surrounding world
I reach out, past the present, and possible futures slam back
one where I am hounded, cornered, killed for my desires
one where a woman who was once you but is sadder, angrier, older, recoils from the memory of the touch, insists
that you were too young to agree, wears the worn-down faces of so many women who souls had crumbled from
that touch, whose minds had shattered from the shame
and one where, yes, you do look back fondly on our love, on your blossoming, on what we were able to teach and
learn from across the carnal caverns between adult and child worlds
But while I cannot tell yet which world would be true, I cannot ask
Still I dream of Yes
I dream that we might dance through tomorrow's garden, naked and entwined, hands and mouths enraptured by
feelings like none that we have ever known
I dream that those who you would tell would tell us of their parallel ecstacies, and bodies and souls would blend
and embellish the earth, their joys united
of all ages
across all ages
for all ages
If I touched you, would you tell?
In some future a messiah may resolve all questions
I dream of the joyful answers he may bring.