When all the facsimiles and notations have died
and all things advanced have faded away,
lost is the artform of simple conversations
a face-to-face rarely recognized.

I saw you there, looking out of a box
your face a distant memory, pixilated and without justice,
touch the computer screen, much like a picture
but without possession and ownership.

The screen flickers once, all forms of contact gone
in the blink of an eye, severed from touch,
if thoughtform could be sent on the psychic plane
I would tell you how much I missed you.

A glance isn't enough, a pronoun rarely used well
for when all electrons die, we are left with just our hands,
but hands are enough to convey message and meaning
even if my hands cramp up, I would still be calling out to you.

As years pass, the thoughtforms return to me
reminding me of times when I wasn't there,
a gulf spanned by an emotion computers can't transfer
paltry means dwarfed by the presence of you.

01/26/2012