Hazel Quigley

The braille on my heart
Reads ´do not touch.´
This makes you smile;
The damage being done.

Oh well. Too late now!
Pity I draw such blind lovers,
Like rumors of Jesus drew lepers.

We burrow into each other,
Looking for it.
But neither of us can cure
What is not there-
This vacuum we each carry
Along with dreams of fulfillment.

In hearing just that,
Eyes wide open,
The void is made known.
You can place it in a little box
With the other impending mysteries
That would have you cling to me
Because it is ´the done thing.´

Open the tiny capsule of questions
You ask yourself in the blackness,
When you have finally tired of the great distraction,
And then try telling me
You don´t regret this.