The braille on my heart
Reads īdo not touch.ī
This makes you smile;
The damage being done.
Oh well. Too late now!
Pity I draw such blind lovers,
Like rumors of Jesus drew lepers.
We burrow into each other,
Looking for it.
But neither of us can cure
What is not there-
This vacuum we each carry
Along with dreams of fulfillment.
In hearing just that,
Eyes wide open,
The void is made known.
You can place it in a little box
With the other impending mysteries
That would have you cling to me
Because it is īthe done thing.ī
Open the tiny capsule of questions
You ask yourself in the blackness,
When you have finally tired of the great distraction,
And then try telling me
You donīt regret this.