Poetry: Senseless

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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.


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