Ken's Poetry

Untouchable

I see her by the fireside
crying softly into an old sweater,
I hear the quiet sobs and sniffs
but when I reach out my hand
to touch her she shivers.
I cannot comfort, just watch and listen
beside her on this old settee,
I cannot feel the fire’s warmth
cannot smell the perfume in her hair
cannot speak in ways that she can hear.
Clinging to her body heat
desperate to hold on to the memories
I move close, thigh to thigh
place my arm approximately
round her waist.

Shivering again
she rises,
turns up the fire.