POETRY: The Word Does Not Exist

I️ wish there was a word for how

there are these inset universes

that expand and envelop the world

like walking through a spiderweb

or talking on separate beds in the dark

or drawing letters on a back. For how

the anticipation of our electrons and atoms

pulling toward each other but not yet touching

is more real than pain

or the relief of orgasm. For how

our bodies somehow can feel

something that is the absence of feeling

a prefeeling a nothing

that is still more real than

the sum of our somethings. For how

tiny touches and almost touches

are maybe love and loss

and expansion and contraction. For how

we don’t only feel it when it happens

but we remember it

and we know it

and we crave it.

All at once and never again.