Twenty-Four
Light dives through the great, gaping hole of my eye
and bends to the optic nerve on the far side,
focused, for me, by glasses so thick
they slip when the sweat on my nose gets too thick.
My brain pulls out colors from my memory,
from one tiny spot where we all truly see,
combines and extrapolates, paints me a scene
so I can deduce what the rays of light mean.
Reality passes through all our minds' sieves;
the disparate remnants become our beliefs.
All we can trust are the once-felt sensations
we had in the presence of part of creation.
When I say I miss you, what I mean to say
is representations on screens can't convey
the feeling, the scent, the sight, and the sound
of having your physical flesh form around.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you, I vow.
So please won't you come and be near me somehow?
Spoiler! :
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