Grasp

I am shrinking.

Becoming smaller and smaller. The walls are closing in until soon my whole existence will fit into a shoe box, maybe even a match box.  The bonds I had with the rest  of the world are stretching thin and distant, people seen through the wrong end of a telescope. Umbilical connections that fed me my lifeblood are pulling away.  

I see you through a pane of thick glass. Only at arm’s reach: I can still touch my fingertips to yours, but I cannot feel their warmth, or the surge of your pulse, or mine. Just the cool transparent smoothness.