We don’t run our hands
along the spines of books
or smell fresh ink on pages.
We slide fingertips over skin
searching, longing.
We hide behind screens—
letters typed and cold.
We can’t lay on cool grass,
pick green blades,
count quiet stars.
Stillness
makes us stagnant
We hate
feeling stuck.
We speak without listening,
touch without feeling.
We run
from each other,
from anything that might make us feel.
We search for answers
to questions we’re too fearful to ask,
and ignore all that we hear.
We’d much rather read someone’s heart
on a 4×4 screen
than feel it pulsing in our fingertips
yet we crave is exactly that—
to be known, held, understood.

We are the lost generation,
afraid of being found.