My precious one, you are a joy to me!
And when we talk, I feel so close to you.
So close—and yet I cannot hold your hand,
Or kiss your lips, or feel your fingers glide
Caressingly across my cheek and hair.
A piece of glass both joins and separates.
I touch it to send messages of love
And read upon its surface those from you.
Then from a thousand miles a thousand words
Shine through the glass! Accursed glass! For though
I see the face that I adore, no more
Than look, for when I touch, it feels like glass.
Forgive me. I should not ungrateful be.
We owe all our togetherness to glass.
Copyright © 2018 Abigail Gronway – All Rights Reserved
Fourteen lines of unrhymed verse written in iambic pentameter