We say we,
The poets,
Have seen.
Know what it is to really feel.
Understand what it is to dig your nails into your skin
To keep your heart from breaking one more time.
But we don’t.
Not really.
None of us have touched anything.
None of us are touching anything even now.
The scientist in me is screaming that all of us
Are just feeling the spaces between atoms.
The charge that keeps the world charged.
Begging to feel our skin against someone elses
But we never really do.
So we,
The poets,
Are just liars.
Liars.
Liars.
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