Is it wrong to miss you?

What if we both run
parrallel lines along
snowy walks--
legs stepping across
bleached streets like
soldiers in unison,
at the same time,
together;
but still,
still parallel.
I learned in elementary school
that we can never ever
touch.

If we are all just for our own sake,
what conclusion could we ever come to?
What are we then,
how--what makes us so great
that even our mere existance is
the explanation of our presence;
each some sort of unique gift to the universe?
I, you, we are each a bundle of cells,
hormones, arguably a soul,
but definitely atoms in space--
space, which is both infinitely large
& infinitely small.

Instead of right or wrong,
we are diminished to foolish little snowflakes,
all dumbly in our own way, "human."
"Art for art's sake," we are all
paintings on the mantle:
abstract & upside-down,
but nobody can tell the difference.