Touch

I thought I saw something odd: a pattern dissolving into mayhem.

As some chaos longs to know order.

That odd moment when your brain starts whirring before your eyes know the light.

And you find yourself where you left yourself when the light left you.

Yet somehow, the place isn't quite real until you leave it again.

A caress is a passing thing.
And a ceaseless touch meaningless. 

The machine about me, a flying and startlingly still ribbon of asphalt beneath, tenterhooks pulling all things just right, a timing belt as infinity sign.
Time, space and speed sit around trying to outsmart one another, as the stagehands make it all anew.
Once in awhile you pass over under or through something. 

Then you can say "Ah, I felt it : Things have changed : Things are different now." 

Yet the subtle change, the slight one, that one owned by no moment, 

That is the secret one.

When did the water turn to glass? 

When did that flush take her neck? 

When did the Western sky go black?