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The cold distance,

Between my fingers;

The void,

Where you once sat.

The abyss that grows wider,

As curiosity gets the best of me.

There you are again,

Running in circles,

Sicker than a lab rat.

When was it,

You and I?

Where is the closeness --

That sigh of relief?

The gap widens,

Slipping further,

And then I let go.

No longer is there the need --

To sink my fingernails in,

And hold on for dear life.

The abyss will swallow me --

The void of blackness will consume me 

--

And there will be nothing left.

A shell --

Something no longer in existence,

Where I once would have been.

The chords between these bones are wound a little tight
and every time my digits flex a cracking breeds abasement.
People say to stop the taps, the clicking and the rickets,
but as the infrastructure of my hands will soften and degrade,
I cannot help but reach in hopes of grasping someone's praises.
I've built and buffed these mannish claws for purpose clear, concise,
yet every step with arms at length results in falling, clutching;
scraping up the rivets, steel, and stones of blithe indifference.
Whereas had I huddled in a squarish, smallish trench and curled
my fingers 'round my middle, dense, and hid from their derision,
I couldn't help but panic and assume I've missed your passing-by:
the one true thing that signifies your where and when, or how and why,
and whether you will soon return to mark the way you're walking.
Rely on me - above, beneath; I'll sooner drown in draining moats
than miss a chance to feel, caress, and revel in your presence.
There are no words to supplant the touch, and in the touch, I will indulge,
as soon my permission grants - as soon as hands recover.

A few months back I met a girl who now shares my address

We'll grow to be extremely close, and yet I must confess

A certain insecurity I wish she would shake loose

Regarding a BY PRODUCT of everyone's caboose...

In the morning she won't deal with Mother Nature's Law

Unless I am Light Years away from our Bathroom Door

I'd plead with her from deep within to do what she must do

But she'll say with embarrassment "I CAN'T--not number TWO"

Now I can understand what might be her biggest fear

Those sounds that echo in the bowl, she's afraid I"ll hear

But I would not love her any less, the lady owns my heart

What I wish from her this Christmas,

Just one Little Noisy Fart