I seek to fill my hands.

I reach out, grasp, catch hold.
  Of nothing.

Sand through fingers of the
  contorted
    reaching
      desperate
        hand.

In vain I seek contact:
The amazing feeling of unity.
  With another.
For a moment, one form
  One outline.

It eludes me like a
  night bat
    with sonar.

I reach towards framed pictures
  memories
    trying to resurrect dead ghosts
      of happiness.
    trying to feel once more
      a hand in mine.
I touch cold air.

My fingers clutch 
  A vacuum.

I speak to people,
  their bodies brush like
    dead leaves against my skin
  like ghosts they depart
    without trace.
All contact is through
  walled media
    electronic proxy
I am denied reality.

Even those I delude myself with
  whom I believe may care for me
    in some fashion
  they too leave no substance in my hand.
The silent night laughs at my sweet memories
  reminding me I hear no one
    feel no one
      there is no kind voice at my door
        pursuing me
          caring.
I leave their presence and
  cease to exist.
    The affections I feel
      or wish I felt
        vanish completely
          when my back is turned.
    The soft voice of a lover
      is never heard.
        The terrible crash of silence
          precludes it.

Couples walk hand-in-hand,
  chat fondly through nights
    promise undying love
      unwavering faithfulness
        constant attendance
          companionship.
I grasp another's hand
  to find it dissolve in mine
I hold tightly
  to nothing
Physical touch obsesses
  I must reach out
    touch-hug-hold
      convince myself of the reality
        which is not present.
The lingering fare-well brush 
  of fingers on high cheekbone
     vanishes from my senses
       into infinite void.

No voice.

I sit in my room alone
  typing
    pouring soul on paper
      for none to hear.
Those who I imagine listen
  have vanished at this hour
    If I did not renew my presence daily
      grasping anew at solid flesh
        I would never feel them
          again.
Vanished, my friends
  who once I held dear,
    Ultimately released.
      My strain of holding
        unbearable.
I hold to air
  fierce
    not freeing
      the empty space.
The press of fingertip on palm
  hand closed on nothing
    is as close as I feel
      real warmth.

I look at my hands
I cannot understand
Why they cannot hold.
                          --- CSA, 2/17/97