Orbiting through space and my third consecutive
vodka cranberry, I hear the television say that
electrons never touch. Always infinitesimal space
between the things we feel and feel us, always
hovering just slightly always spinning out of sync
grasping floundering alone pushing away the things
that we pull closer. I text everyone I know.
Recall in vivid color every time I’ve said I want to
feel you so much closer. If all of modern love is
the urge to sink into one another then what do we do
with this revelation?
I am frantic imagining all of the times I was never
touched hard enough, all of the lips my lips never grazed,
all of the bruises that formed of their own accord.
Never really touching, never feeling never grasping never
falling never fumbling never shattering.
But if we’re never really touching. If we’re never
really touching if we’re never really touching if
you never really touched me
maybe I was never really broken after all.
Megan Mauro is a recent college grad floating through space waiting for something exciting to happen. She's a poet, caffeine aficionado, and firm believer in the Oxford comma. She has a lifetime love of people-watching and a guilty pleasure of writing greeting cards.