The Touch
It arrived at the exact point
where the silver lines of the web
met the soles of my bare feet.
A sudden, physical friction.
It was not hands,
nor the shifting of the air,
but a steady pressing upward—
as if the dense, syrupy dark beneath me
had found its contour
and turned to solid wood.
The resonant drone in the frozen lines broke,
fracturing the quiet.
The vibration changed directions,
rushing up through my ankles
like cold water finding an empty pipe.
The crushing weight on my chest let go,
leaving me exposed
to the new geometry beneath me.
The web had caught something—
or something had used the web to catch me—
and for the first time since the ledge broke,
I was standing.
The solidity of the wood was absolute,
yet it wasn't dead.
Beneath my bare soles the grain felt warm,
vibrating with the slow, deep hum
of the presence that had caught me.
I opened my eyes.
The blindness dissolved.
There was no glare of light,
no horizon,
no sky—
only an impossible expanse
of towering, frozen trunks
made of the same dark ocean
that filled my chest.
And there, a breath away,
stood the silhouette of you.
Your stillness carried a cold air displacement
against my face.
There was no distance left to cross,
yet we were distinct again:
two pillars
resting on the same foundation,
completely motionless.
Hands were still too much surface.
Instead, I let my altered breath—
the icy white vapour
still laced with the sting of pine—
cross the final fraction of an inch between us.
The mist of my exhale
touched the surface of your shadow.
We were in touch.
","author_name":"Friedrich Gatzen"}