With(out) by Yoshi Das

It’s a loss that trembles at their fingertips, just a little pinprick and it would
come pouring out,
a puddle they wouldn’t quite touch that would drown them as they walk
around in a seemingly airtight bubble,
as if their loss is not still at their fingertips, ready to slither into their veins
and run straight to their heart.

It’s a fear that sits in the corner of the room looking into dead eyes with
determination and steadiness
as it expects its owner to recognize it as their one constant, their one
twisted known,
but its owner looks straight through it as if unable to touch or feel what
they know all too well to destroy them.

It’s this nagging feeling that something is just out of reach, as if to touch it is
impossible but
to be touched by it without feeling so much as a tickle while being painfully
aware of its touch isn’t an entire paradox,
as if it can touch without touching, reach without reaching, see without
seeing, be without being.