Blank: Losing the Sense

I sit here. The gas fire burns, but gives off no heat.

As cold and blank as the palette for my senses.

I shiver, the goosebumps crawl up my skin,

settle in around my neck like a noose.

The jazz music plays, jars with the soft

conversations around me.

A large, harsh cough of a smoker.

The clang of dishes behind the counter

not calming, no, unsettling,

waiting for something to happen.

Hot coffee to warm me,

settling behind, between my teeth,

over my tongue. I taste nothing,

a hot wasteland waiting, and waiting.

Futilely.

The coffee cools, leaves only bitterness;

the aroma I should taste never arrives.

I hold onto the light, dimmed but clear,

not dulled to my eyes.

Only frisson on pleasure

coursing through my head.

I am left only the ripples on my skin,

in my eyes, allowing my soul to be

short of barren.

Much here to overwhelm, but I am betrayed.

Forsaken by the senses I was born with,

toned as a fine-tuned instrument,

yet falling flat on the stage of my mind.

(From the exercise we did at Java, Tea, and Scones Writers' Group. The exercise was to describe where we were--Panera Bread--through the eyes of someone who is hurting or just broke up with his/her girlfriend or someone who is very, very happy or *some* strong feeling--without saying that feeling....

Mine was using my lack of ability to smell...and how it dulls the senses.)