It's difficult to have such passion
with no fitting place to direct it.
An isolated orchestrator cannot orchestrate in nothing
(unless he is of his own devices)
and his melodic passions fall
into echoes no one will hear.
Reaching out with a hand that touches air,
grasping wind in lieu of cloth
and my hand reflects the light--
Light that should be reflecting off your cheeks.
Emotion-filled embraces and
will be unsatisfactorily conveyed
when I could be touching you,
I could be caressing your lips with mine,
I could be resting my body in yours.
There is no replacement for the tangible,
but there are yearnings for the gaps it leaves.