Ghost Hand

His hand on my shoulder, a light tap,

a friendly gesture, meaning no harm.

But a jolt went through me, like a trap,

a sudden, cold, unwelcome alarm.

I bit my tongue, kept my face serene,

pretended to not notice the slight pressure.

But where he'd touched, a hot sting,

a ghost-print, something I couldn't measure.

It felt like a bruise, though none was there,

just a need to pull away, to be left alone.

To walk into a colder, emptier air,

and not have that brief contact ever known.