I’m hardly conscious, maybe half-alive,
but this palpable notion begins to prod
my peripheral vision. Synaesthesia. An odour
tickling the back of my throat. A low hum
bringing me to tears. My mind gropes for your hand.
Out of instinct, I guess. Easier to cling to familiar
visions, when all else is lost. Better still
to erase false sensation. Now you’re gone.
Marian asks us to play with Just One Word: Sensation
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