Making Sense of You



I wish I could see what I used to see,
my sight of that sight now fading.
But that’s just my eyes peering into
the void where once some body stood.
I’ll admit that I probably saw better
from the corners of these windows
to my soul, but that’s because I hardly
ever look at you straight-on, for, 
to do so, would allow you to see me.
I wish I could hear what I used to hear,
the soundness of my hearing now smothered so.
But that’s just my ears, useful only for
holding up my glasses for these shy eyes 
that can’t see some body anyway.
 
Isn’t it odd that I saw best when my ears 
faced you and I heard best when we were 
face to face, the better to focus on  
not much more than your lips? 
But what does it matter? I always 
see you best when I close my eyes 
and hear you well enough when
I pull the wires from my ears. Then, 
some body's youth never fades like 
my senses, as I fumble around the corners 
of recollection in this haunted house 
between my shoulders, searching for 
one more sniff, taste, or touch. 
 

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