Touch

I feel your tembled hands travel up my body.

I feel your troubled hands wringing out my sigh.

I feel myself living in your touch.

I find my life hidden by a lie; 

My mind plays games in front of my eyes.

The touch I feel, 

How am I to know it wasn't real?

How am I to know with this sick in my bones?

My stomach churns and I'm feeling ill. 

Will someone tell me how to feel - 

How to feel about the memory of you?

How can I begin to care to you,

When all my ill are thoughts of you?

How can I know how far your hands really go

When you're not here to attest to that?

So, forget the thought and the "proven fact".

I'll pretend they never had me like that.

(Pretending is all I'll do,

Until there's nothing left to solidly prove.)