Why am I touching
stone instead of
faces?
Chilly pock-marks litter
inorganic skin, and that's
all they have left.
Their eyes look dead, their eyes look
dead, and maybe
they're waiting for something?
If we knew what it was, they wouldn't
stand so still and tired.
I want my touch to
mean something. I want
fake rocks to flame up
under my hand, I want to
divine the defunct
with my life, the only thing
I own.
Missing - 478, 444 and my shadow,
our souls.
When you find them, could you tell me why
I'm touching stone
when I want to feel flesh?
