Translucent Trains on Translucent Tracks

Speaking in braille,

the night of of spilled beeps.

You thought that you felt what you said that you felt,

but your eyes had escaped you!

You thought that you felt what you said that you felt,

but all you had to show were

engorged taste-buds.

"LOVER, I KNOW YOU'RE SWEET

BUT I CAN NO LONGER TASTE!

LOVER, I JUST, I JUST

DON'T KNOW IF I KNOW

WHAT YOU ARE

WITHOUT IT!"

There were exceptions,

but not without expectations

and there were sock-hop cake-walk numbers lining the floor,

begging us to pick the right spot

so we could again taste something sweet.

Amidst see-sawed emotions, making small things feel heavy:

tickle-me-pink plastic flamingos teetering back and forth

with translucent fish-lines hooked into translucent trains,

stringing them along translucent tracks,

waiting for a crash we could SEE,

a crash we could FEEL,

something we could TASTE!

(And I will miss you,

the scent of you,

your shadowy way with chiseled words,

the jigsaw fit 

of us,

I will miss

you.)

They will ask,

and I will respond in a series of spilled beeps,

letting the candles burn

past their wicks,

so I could clothe my fingertips

in their wax

and claim

it was impossible for me

to read braille,

and that I was sorry,

and that I am sorry,

and that you, him, her, them, and I--

we are all

sorry.

Author's Note

unfinished