Inability to feel love is incomplete,
like only the inverse of union can be,
So unlike a circle,
but so close in places that sparks fly across.
Desire to quench this thirst is infinite,
but I am immune to the waters you bathe in
And the hunger to be whole
is a literal ritual.
Disability can blind your numb steps
And like night-sweats
There’s a fever.
Panic as I reach for what I feel inside,
Scrabbling at this vocabulary, these colours,
for some hint of what’s there.
But it can’t be reproduced,
this pain is incomplete.
Inability to give love is unholy,
Selfish desires refresh
Need to think alone
and be without this virtual reality
When all else fails
there’s still love,
but I can’t feel it, or smell it,
but in my dreams I imagine
And nothing can ever get closer to me
than my isolation
And nothing could compare to a beautiful dream.
© PickledSparklyMoosePrincess – author