Octobriana from Oz (Laura Seabrook) (octobrianaoz) wrote in spinsters_hood,
Octobriana from Oz (Laura Seabrook)
octobrianaoz
spinsters_hood

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Sad Poem

I wrotte this one a while ago...

TOUCH

I</font>

What do I miss?
Of what do I miss, of lovers lost?
Do I miss the talk of things great and small,
   of consequence and interest?
   Do I miss the voice,
      modulated through tones of care, of love, of sharing life?
      Do I miss the moments between us when,
         like that of a shared joke,
         we laughed and giggled at the absurdity of life?
         Do I miss the sex,
            either wild, dull, sensual,
            clumsy, deceptive, satisfying,
            frustrating, or not quite right?
            Do I miss these things I guess I do...
               ...but not as much as I miss the touch of another.
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Nothing sensual,
   nothing suggestive,
   nothing threatening or angry either.
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Just simple touch, of one on another.</font></font></font>

And change to hand or documents given or receipts taken,
   are not the same.
   As touch it deadens,
      quietens,
      stills,
      shouts "Here's your thing! (now go away)".
It gives no pleasure or delight.
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I need more.</font></font></font>

And in a solitary existence I hunger for
the simple things of skin on skin.
   And I lack the courage to ask for what I need,
      for in asking do admit defeat (of what?).
      Suffering secondhand substitutes for
      touch and sex made only by myself...
         ...but it's not the same.
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Human contact and response, need it be human anyway?</font></font></font>

For I long for a pet.</font></font></font>

All the lovers deserted me long ago...
   ...or I deserted them.
   Does it matter...
      ...the end is but the same.
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Pets trust and do not betray their trust.
   They wait,
      dependent,
      fauning on you like a child who never grows up.
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And pets have personalities which I can interact with.
   Pets comfort.
   For pets cuddle;
      some displaying their stomachs,
      inviting you to please them shamelessly.
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I miss my pets.
   And maybe,
      one day soon,
      they will no longer be missing from my life...
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II

Skin on Skin.

Touch the other all akin.
Stroke all along, caress,
   tarry more,
   sing the songs of one another.
   Firm hands holding fast the little ones in their care,
      all stern but loving.
      Warm hearty hands greet and clasp giving
      assurance and a welcoming embrace.

Soft hands gently changing diapers,
   wash clothes,
   and pick up after.
   Sensuous hands delineate the contours of desire,
      suggesting pleasure in their arc upon another's skin.

Skin on skin...
   ...all this I miss.

I am starved and like the woman who only seeing fat in her reflection,
   decides to eat nothing.
   Touch is made important by it's absence.
   And I once gave massages and hugs to all
   and any that cared for them...
      ...but no one came to my feast.

Alone and lost in the crowd, I shout wordlessly for what I need.
   And having no ears to hear my silent screams,
      those around me ignore the deafening roar.

I want, I need.

And at some distant point in time did I cross a line...
   ...of wanting,
      sharing,
         touching,
            bearing,
               loving,
                  caring?

And not knowing that I crossed that line,
   became invisible to myself and others?

Friends come and go and some give hugs and some give touch.

But they are as lighthouse keepers in a silent careless ocean...
   ...and I cannot use them up.

An ever dilemma,
   the answers not forthcoming,
   despair descends casting pain and frustration in its wake.

For I am a sensuous being,
   desiring contact of all types for all purposes.

I miss that most of all.

I thirst for contact but like a person surrounded by seawater,
   have nothing fit to drink.

So I wait.

I wait and wait and wait,
   given crumbs of contact just enough to keep me going,
   but not enough for joy.

Do I wait for you?

III

What is the way to break a fast?

   ...is it by ceasing to care anymore?
      I don't think so.
      ...is it by mourning the loss of love and touch?
         I wouldn't think so.
         ...is it by vain hope to endure until relief comes,
            like the cavalry in an old film?
         I know not so!

Yet here I am,
   mourning the absence of love and touch,
   of desire unfulfilled.
      So then, where to from here,
         to happiness or despair?

My choice.

Third parties need not apply until invited.
And I don't invite.

As always,
   I get my own seat on the bus.
   People walk around me rather than past me in the street,
      or so it seems.

But this only hurts when I let it hurt,
   when being sorry for myself exceeds the sorrow within.

But still my choice.

What to do?
What solution?
What untried permutation?

Of that,
   I cannot answer...

And in the while,
   as I wait for my pets,
   my friends,
   my lovers;
   I consider possibilities of decision and happiness.

And maybe,
   though it hurts...
   ...it's my pain.

Mine.

My longing,
   my deficiency,
   my hurt at imagined loss or unfulfilled proposed promise.

And it ain't neccesarily so.

I make it so,
   and,
   if I wish,
   can choose not to make it so.

So they say, so it goes...

And here,
   by choice alone,
   I decide, to feel.

For touch is more than touch.

Touch is also feeling,
   and I choose to feel.

And hurting and longing is feeling...
   ...so I choose to hurt and long.

For in doing so, throw in sharp relief...
   ...the future when I no longer do.

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