there is nothing real
absent of virtual,
away from keystrokes
and mice
from digital masturbation
where happy is just an image
pressed to screen
there is always something blurred
where mind and flesh converge
[ or fail to ]
so we are not known for hugging
in the real world
there is too much noise
in the press of flesh that falls
through invisible edges
perhaps, while still possible,
we should walk around
bare-chested and full of smiles,
laughing at moral minorities
as they fail to see
what we hide too well.
but then,
unseen air would graze
across nipples
[ also unseen ]
and we would remember ...
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
In the cult of the body, too often less is more and anerexioa admirable as long as it is draped in rich materials. 
