I will never have the pleasure.
Of gazing into your lovely eyes.
The sensation of holding each other.
During a rough day, or when falling asleep at night.
The contours of your body.
Snuggled up against mine.
Knowing this, kills me inside.
Like a knife stabbing my heart.
But I’m too sad to die.
I will never feel your soft skin.
Or our hands intertwined.
The thrill I would receive.
When you tell me “You are mine”.
Your voice would be all I need to hear.
Link up our brains.
Connected, two peers.
I confess I made you up.
I only want something to love.
No pause, for celebration.
Out there is nothing for me.
A world that has turned me into a hermit.
Seven billion people.
I can’t even find one.
You don’t even exist.
All part of my over active imagination.