THE LIGHT THAT FAILED

I sit in the dark more often than not, not because I like it, but because I have grown used to it.

I stare out the window but I see nothing, not because I cannot see, but because it is not what I want to look at.

I smell the rancid wet air of the city, the dust of my living, but I ignore it with a snort. It is not what I want to sniff.

I keep shuffling the songs on my player impatiently, I hear, but it is not what I want to listen to.

I eat meals and nibble on snacks. I enjoy the tastes, but my hunger remains.

I can feel the almost imperceptible roughness of the keys, the tactile feel of each as I stroke it, the way it resists the push, the way it springs back after delivering its electric message. But it is not what I want to finger.

I want to see you, I want to hear you. I want to smell you. I want to touch you. I want to taste you. All in the dark.