"My Dying Love: Tangibility"

There is something so great about tangibility,

The way items feel in my grasp upon which they cannot flee.

The textures, the curves, the indentions,

Even the blistering heat that burns my skin,

Or the bitterness that sucks the pigmentation from me,

That is feeling,

That is tangibility.

There is nothing that can replace a mother's soft touch,

Or The power the boy felt when raising his square, pointed fire truck.

A computer cannot give me this,

A picture cannot give me this,

A section of pathetic words cannot give me this,

Tangibility is feeling,

Tangibility is now fleeting.

In a world where all we see are digital pixels,

Or where all our friends are just faces on the internet,

I pray to shake someone's warm hand or to embrace those who I call close friends,

to know that this is reality, that this is all true,

but I cannot.

The tangibility that I crave belongs to a different time,

A time without televisions, computers, or fancy technology,

And there is no logical place for the nostalgic movement of my desperate hands that cry at the smooth, barred touch of a black keyboard,

Or The same hands that nearly choke the life out of a slick, wooden pencil and abrasively grind it to a flimsy sheet of paper till they can feel the new valleys and trenches that engrave my name in this world,

Just so I can have some form of Tangibility in my life,

The Tangibility that gives me truth.

The Tangibility that binds me to an isolated reality.

I miss the feeling of a curved chess piece in my hand,

And even the feeling of being cut by a card before a deal,

I miss the tangibility

My dying love,

poisoned by the 21st century.

Written: 11/21/15. Posted: 11/25/15.