There is this unfathomable desire for touch 
after love has passed you by for millennia. 
You wager divinity like a schoolyard bet;
hoping you do not cry this time when you
scrape your knees on honest concrete.
 
Thoughtless in tone as you slur words;
stretching from palate to tongue like taffy;
sounding like a drunk during the New Year. 
You learn that your body is dispensable
so you shapeshift into a delicate glass;
at least then their lips will touch you often. 

Immortality is not far out of grasp,
because with each breath you exhale
universes of atoms are stolen and consumed.
You interrogate your incredulous religion;
about Newton and his degrading laws
because you and destiny are polar opposites. 

Dependent on water and the air and 
the humiliating thought of his hands 
mapping your every meadow and mountain.
You sought out and still seek tenderness,
but forever remain bereft of its sensations.