I like to think my touch can heal every pain.
The circle of my arms clears worried thoughts.
My kiss on the brow wipes away fears.
A squeeze of my hand is reassurance.

But I'm not sure it works that way.
And that, in turn, pains me.

Because I haven't much else.

I can give the touch of my skin.
I can look into your eyes.
I can smile.
I can listen, and I can talk.
I can reassure, and joke and cry.

Only the insubstantial.

I am the ghost of a savior.
And poorly represented.