I write of love,
when I know only,
the mere nothings of touch,
forever numb;
silent to sound,
and deaf to tone,
I know all to well,
the organ made of stone.
Forever within it's solitude,
it seeks but the warmth,
I cannot give.
Forever hardened in my chest,
it longs for one more chance to live.
Crimson Love
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mere-nothings-of-touch/
