I think this is poetry. But I just wrote it. How can that be?
Fingers lovingly caress plastic, like a teenage lover's gentle touches, predicated by insecurity and overconfidence simultaneously. As pressure in space, the fingertips simply seem to push away their target, all resistance having evaporated. Acceptance leads both oppressor and oppressed to distance, the nothing increasing like the force of fingers and plastic opposing, pushing, and resisting each other. Walls underneath fingertips prevent real contact, like penis through a condom, they feel only muted facsimiles of reality. Electromagnetic proximity defines human feeling, as if to save us from the subatomic tragedy of contact. These walls persist in dividing things, without even existing. Fingers slide over plastic, feeling the rough edges of indentations made for them to press upon. The touch is, and will always be skin deep. Because nobody seems willing to shed their skulls, and even if they could, they'd find something. People always have a reason to refrain from pressing. Afraid that what they touch might hurt them, they remain that teenage lover, sliding his hands where she wants him to grasp. Fingertips sliding over things, adhering to invisible pressures, we determine and deny ourselves. Yet this self-determination is only a brand of imprisonment, its strings upon every joint of every hand. As humanity exists, it is held bound by what it will do, confined closer than any human can recreate for us. This weight pulls down, and up, and makes gravity itself seem paltry before its force. It holds a thumb suspended, circling in the eternal contemplation of inaction. The digit feels the magnetic fields opposing, denying it what it seeks. It cannot press, and will desist. It will remain, forever trapped, clawing to find that real, self-destructive touch, the release of its self-determination.