My Touches

[Anita Williams 7]

He would love my touches, my hugs in bunches, so delicate with me as if he sees loves crunches on my hart, of course, and with every bit of force does what he can to block the punches.
I want to rise without tainting my prize and otherwise seen as nothing to realize.
I'm aware of those who are joyous at the permanent tear stains under my eyes, and the withered soul of a woman dwindling down to the size of a dime.
With that in mind, where is love, compassion, and respect? Is it gone? Did it die?
Searching for hope at the dead end of pain finalized? What's biblically, right?
When inside each attempt to try is a sigh, and all the passion that results from a spark is swept away in the dark attached to each goodbye, when your lover is certainly another's and the memory lies within the tears you cry.
Inside, my weary soul connects all the turmoil I hold, and out of that comes the truth.
I wonder if I found me, will I be searching for you?