Impotence is a Kind of Empathy

When you are not here, and you’re probably falling through your own ideas of being alone while looking out the window, I touch myself on the bedroom floor where you won’t see me, and imagine cuddling you. I think this is because I haven’t yet felt lonely enough, I need to cudgel myself open, grab hold, and break the door off its hinge. Like some god up there in charge of relieving mortal pain, who bangs his head on a cloud thinking he’s too much like a mortal to take care of one, but still tries to once and a while, with a frown that will never be round enough, knowing how pleasure is always too quick to quit the scene, I know that touching myself can always fix everything. And, you are right to think I’m a little thin in the identity department, as I admit, there are times it seems I can’t help but become what I am touching. But it’s more like I know I am more like you when I am falling down.