I write of love, <br />when I know only, <br />the mere nothings of touch, <br />forever numb; <br />silent to sound, <br />and deaf to tone, <br />I know all to well, <br />the organ made of stone. <br /> <br />Forever within it's solitude, <br />it seeks but the warmth, <br />I cannot give. <br />Forever hardened in my chest, <br />it longs for one more chance to live.<br /><br />Crimson Love<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mere-nothings-of-touch/
