What a waste of my eyes,
To see the mundane
Without realizing
That life is slipping away
Into routine.

What a waste of my hearing,
To know that I have talents
That are feeding nothing
Except the same playlists
And artists.

What a waste of my touch,
To type
Instead of feel what it means
To take a risk
In real life.

What a waste of my scent
To smell trash on counters I left,
Never getting lost in
The perfume of nature;
Never truly breathing life in.

What a waste of my pallet,
To sit here dreaming
Instead of kissing lips
That I know I want nothing more
Than to taste.

I wonder if you’ll let me see
What it means to fall with only a whisper
And feel the scent of blueberry wine
On my tongue and lips,

I wonder...