Who knew the brush of fingertips could be translated
Not into words; but into sensations not felt with the hands
Sensations felt with the heart and soul as flutters and pauses
Pauses that seem to last a lifetime but occur in a breath
A whisper containing the weight of every moment like this one
So seemingly concrete I can almost hold them in my palm
And count them as a measure of how much our love is worth
Priceless artifacts of our history not yet dusty in their youth
Slipping through my fingers in their already overwhelming numbers
Settling back into our memories still warm from my touch
To be recalled as a beginning to our once upon a time
When the time becomes long, long ago and we still speak
In the silent language of a shared moment between fingertips