Can you imagine being so lonely, that you crave physical contact?
Simple but small gestures like a hand on a shoulder or a brush of your arm?

And can you imagine how a soul would harden
when denied that contact?

When I lost Jack last May, I lost the one being on this Earth who still let me touch him. He would allow me to pick him, cradle him, cuddle him, stroke his back, massage his scalp, rub his ears.

He would let me love him.

And I loved him so much. More than I can express in mere words.
And I don’t care how pathetic that sounds to other people, because I had no-one else to touch. He was my last link to keeping an open heart.

Poor Max, HATES to be touched. He really isn’t comfortable at all being picked up or held or even stroked. I’m not allowed to touch his head – he ducks away – and he doesn’t like laying on my lap for a tummy rub. He just doesn’t like contact with humans. And because I love him, I respect that he needs his space.

I don’t have anyone to love.

The scab over my heart is so dense that there is
no salve,
no treatment
and no possible means of revival.



My Beloved Jack

My Beloved Jack, just two nights before he died


Max - 2015

Max – 2015


My Boys . . . . 2009

My Boys . . . . 2009






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