Poetry: Senseless






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.