I don't even have words,
For the ways that I don't feel,
I am not the waving of the fields.

I hold onto songs about the moon,
My tides do not swell with her,
I am more the darkness in this room,
Cold, unmoving, absolute.

I am not the motion of your hair,
As he runs his fingers through it,
I no longer even stare.

I Am not the climbing of tree,
I do not yearn upward,
Is there anything to see?
(or be?)

I am not the warmness of your breath,
Clinging tight to your fingers,
And the inside of your chest,

I am not the dreams you make,
As dragons fly by night,
And sparks flow in your wake.

I am not the whispers,
You feel close to your ears,
I am more like distant echoes,