the trouble with touching

When you divide yourself and multiply like a bug, it hurts.

Your wings, which spread like good intention, fool you into believing that it helps you.

It doesn’t.

I’m sitting here, like a kid with a can of something worth spraying and you’re off flying elsewhere, like an insect with no buzz.

Don’t you know that I would keep you?

If I could.

That’s the risk, when you act like this.

It’s a pest and at best we can try to live with it. At worst, it needs eradicating.

Fly by.

Land in my hand and let me take pictures of you and write stories about all of the things that could be.

I could keep you in a jar, where you will live until you die or I could kiss you once and pick the wings from you and watch you try.

Or, you can use your sting and I will count the places you have been.

It’s extreme, but we all know, that’s the trouble with touching.

© ryan

the trouble with touching

PJ Ryan

Melbourne, Australia

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