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;

then,

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?