Conversation, soundless; we have never
Heard each other’s laughter, music, timbre.
Scent, ethereal; our arms have never
Held the other or tightened on a kiss.
Taste, unimaginable; the deep sense
That lies forever beyond the unreal.
Touch, hypothetical; a creation
Built from the one thing we have: visuals.
Sight is the devious sense, denying
The chill in the air and the colder sound
Of everyday, masking the odor
Of woman and man, leaving hungry lips
To quiver with sexual starvation.
I see . . . I want . . . but I must deny you.