​touching my hands to my face
is like petting yours;
if i close my eyes, i can
pretend i'm better than i am.
my fingertips try to register
solely the sensation of skin.

for a second, i consider putting ice to my cheek,
a numbing agent,
so i can keep the daydream alive,
so i won't ever forget the soft roughness of your skin,

something to help quell
the ache in my gut.
the hollows of an empty hand could
shatter me, but for a moment,

lying in my bed alone, i swear it's like i can touch you.