On the Sense of Touch

I couldn't touch it. The body, I mean. I couldn't. Because I knew, I just knew that the second I did The supersaturated solution that was my heart Would crystallize and crack Into a thousand raw pieces. The soulute of tears would pour out And the battle would be over. I would have lost. So every time they told me That I could touch him- Help my "grieving process" I looked at that room temperature hand And tried not to think of biology frogs. I sat and stared. Eyebrows slightly furrowed And expression set Wearing the barest of smiles as my only protection From overbearing family and well wishing friends Who cried as they stood strong for me. "We're closing the coffin now. You should say your goodbyes." And for one gleaming second I want to grab that dead hand and scream. Scream he's my dad and he's gone and I want him ba- The lid closes. I couldn't touch it. The body, I mean.