Lamentation of Longing

The Fool Named Dust

I feel it in my shoulders,

the strength that exists there,

for no one to touch save an unfeeling garment.

And I lament the loss of youth,

the pouring out of a chalice cracked,

bleeding beneath the beautiful boundaries of self.

What of my form—

the phantom touch unfelt

for what seems an epoch or longer?

I ache in my trembling temple for tenderness,

a caress with care, thoughtful and compassionate.

I feel it above my heart and within,

throbbing with each beat moving in yearning—

to be seen, for my strength to be an asset,

or even an object of her desire, if she exists.

My jaded mirth does not hope easily any longer.

I have been the untouched for near on eight years.

Hideous. Ugly. Filth. Undesirable. Lonely and first cast aside.

Such are the labels I heap upon my head as one frenzied,

passionate in my self-flagellation—

attempting to obscure the pain of longing.

Just a touch on my cheek,

a palm warm and kind,

maybe a kiss on the cheek with true meaning,

a steady hand reaching up and caressing my shoulders—

looking at me, seeing me, and I her.

Such is the dream of the fool named Dust.