The Origin of Timing and Context

Many moons ago, 

before Tears and Laughter,

before the curse of Knowledge 
and the sin of Satisfaction, 

there were two beings-

One as fickle as the wind, one as sure as

mountains are tall and streams are steady. 

Day over day, night over night, 

they pondered the quiet of their solitary existence. 

They dreamed of noise and chaos and touch, 

wondered what it could be like to scream

and be seen and heard and held. 

Timing, as promiscuous as the butterfly, 

extended its reach to the far corners of the earth, 

traversing through virgin meadows and

sherbet sunsets toward warmer pastures.

Searching for the weight and stillness of Context. 

Context, a quiet and understated thing, 

gave itself to the stars and the grass. 

Fed the sunflowers with everlasting sunshine, but

accepted nothing in return when 

the brush of the proboscis painted expectations, 

longing across the milkweed,

and whispered sweet nothings inside petals. 

Timing, forever searching for its home, 

and Context, forever guarding its truth. 

Both never quite finding themselves 

seeking comfort from the same full moon. 

But as the world grew smaller, 

while seasons folded into one another, 

Fate sculpted a garden 

so fragrant it captured the attention of Timing, 

so peaceful it soothed the fears of Context. 

When they finally caught sight of each other, 

they realized neither knew themselves truly

until they met the other. 

When the wrinkles on our faces 
match the folds of memories 
we tucked away together in our hearts, 

remind me to tell you our story: 

the origin of Timing and Context. 

Mixed

Skin like brown sugar

They are mine, I am not theirs, 

with skin white as salt.

Ancient Histories

Time picked my bones clean of you and 
the anger in my flesh rotted away, leaving
nothing but the facts of our existence.

Fact #1:
Fissures in my heart
serve as the thumbprints you left
when you mentioned love. 

Fact #2:
I made myself small 
for the sake of your comfort, 
to soothe your envy. 

Fact #3:
It's unfortunate 
Timing and Context chose not
to consent to us. 

When I'm unearthed they'll discover, 
the quiet grinning skull of a woman who 
refused to die before she was done loving. 

The Economics of Touch

I aim to be precise with my words,
careful, measured, purposeful. 
Each inflection, each touchpoint of
fingertips to pen to paper to keyboard, 

Has a meaning. 

Has a purpose. 

Has a place. 

Each character yielding unpredictable power, 
of stories untold or those rinsed, washed- 
repeated so often they fade into the
blue denim warmth of when 
you're cheek to cheek. 

"Economical," he said. "That's the word."

Funny how our most complimentary descriptors
tie back to transactions, 
each adjective focused on the value 
a word may bring to an exchange. 

This one, 
for the low cost of two years of friendship, 
is telling. 

That one, 
for the high cost of drinks, 
indicates there's more than meets the eye. 

And this last one, well
let me tell you
it can be purchased at hotels in Utah
with monthly installments 
of investment and curiosity and three easy payments of $9.99. 
Limited time only for those who explore 
how time warps in stillness, 
how pockets contain universes. 

With touch, though, I forget to enunciate - 

Cost: Articulation. Presentation. Understanding. 
Benefit: Intimacy. Trust. Vulnerability. 
Analysis: Unsure. Unclear. Unknown. 

In the long tail, it's subtle grazes, high fives, a shoulder squeeze or two. 
But the spikes in the graph, for enterprise customers? 
It's prolonged closeness. It's comfort. 
It's being held and holding, 
that protective pause that leads to, 

"I am content."

The embrace that inspires, 

"I feel safe. You see me. This makes me feel loved."

The playful gestures that say, 

"I don't know how to say thank you anymore because the pen steals my words and the world steals my heart and my body is not as intentional as Broca's area and and and I don't know how I don't want to I don't know how to stop my hands from tumbling."

I can feel the gasps of air 
trapped since my past life
spilling out through my chest and
the want to finger paint into the palms of your hands 
that sunset I saw when the world stretched forever, 
and it reminded me of how I can bring the pastels 
to guide you back to the next sunrise 
when you call me from your own dark corners. 

So, how does one measure the returns of touch?
For as much as I measure the weight of my words, 
there's a scarcity to my tactile language - a demand 
that's terrifying and all consuming and I didn't realize 
my frivolous gifting depleted the supply I have to give. 

If I know the price, the toll I deliver to my warden heart 
to pull back the curtains so old they're immobile
from the weight of the dust- 
does that conversely define value?

Did the equation call for the division or multiplication of 
the risk when it's exposed that there are dents in the stage, 
the actors are absent, the props are nowhere to be found...

Should the formula take into consideration questions like,
"will you become a member of those I formerly trusted?"

Please inform me, in the spirit of transactions, 
what are the economics of touch?