Ah! Would ‘twere with so many, a gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any, writhed not of passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there are none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme
Right now I feel it, and I’ve no one to heal it, and so I’ll make sure my senses stay suitably numbed into catharsis until such time as I feel better or, god forbid, I find someone.