Touch,

The grip of the world as I know it

Without tactile context,

There is only a bridge between life and pointless wandering

The absence of touch,

Is a book without a spine,

A painting without a frame,

The blue sky without the ground below,

My existence without meaning...

The departure of my senses started as unnoticed as a beating heart,

As a clock that starts weaving into your mind,

Always present,

Little despised,

Tampering with your sanity so closely,

Hiding in plain sight

It happens like the wilting of flowers,

Waning slightly,

Then gone in an instant

Dead and irreversible,

Tokens of decay

There is a tingling before there is nothing,

The feeling carves me up,

Spitting me out with oblivion alone

Detaching my own body,

Then preying for even more

"The feeling" is all I can describe it as,

Even if its very nature is numbness

It parts the falls of my life,

So crystal clear and flowing magnificently,

It pursues me relentlessly,

Ignoring all boundaries I once had

Escape,

The only choice I have left

Desperation I never knew existed until today

The day my grip would leave me

Mind fumbling,

Legs only half following my scrambled requests

The noose is around my neck,

Yet it never tightens

I want it to end,

Yet the pursuit never relents

My torso tingles with the feeling,

My legs stiffen,

Then buckle under invisible force

Scrambling my hands when nothing else pulls me

The kitchen floor creaks under my inane body,

It is solace in the storm of numbness and quiet

My palm reaches cold wood of the cutting block,

And finally,

The metallic bliss I was searching for…

Saving me before it’s too late