There is a beauty known only to the blind
There is a moan heard only by the deaf
There is a love that only the ugly may be sure of

A love beyond the grasp of vanity or lust
A love that cannot be measured in pounds or inches
A love not driven by appetite or ego

There is a place the caress of a hand
or finger cannot touch or penetrate
There is a place that cannot be found through a breast
or felt with tongue or lips
There is place our bodies cannot go

There is a warmth that runs too deep
for arm or penis to reach
There is a hole that flesh cannot fill

We have wandered there
you and I
Perhaps at the same time
Perhaps parts of us much deeper have
Brushed against one another, there

Perhaps it was felt upon the surface
Where things and real and finite
Like the meat of the heart
or the cracking of a bone

Where our wants and cravings
are immediate, and demanding
of something solid

Something we can scar or harm
or lose, or ignore,
or spill the fluids of passion upon

But why so much talk of things that do not matter
We speak of dreams and smoke and thoughts
and the shadows of thoughts
We speak of things that cannot be

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