It’s the sorrow of being untouched

By hand, by sound of voice

Reflected

It’s a wound within the chest

A throbbing ache

Regretted

It’s a dense fog of the soul

Succumbing to bad posture

The body language of one who knows

Only how to falter

It’s the beckoning gloom of endless night

The tireless wake of the surf

It’s a shelf stocked with memoirs that gave up the fight

Fear of a premature birth

It’s sitting alone

Cast aside

By one’s own expectations

It’s choosing to cry

Without knowing why

The pity your only salvation

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www.SuburbanFiction.com