Tuesday, January 12, 2010

The Failure of Senses

The latch is broken, the window is never clear
but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;
what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass
its breath rising and falling on the pane.
I want to write messages of love and joy,
hearts and initials in the condensation;
but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface
my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

for a moment,
I feel the warmth of another hand
and I look up to see the figure
reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand
and a consciousness placing it there
but something in me is still wary;

could this thing
be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?
forming false hopes?

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