Detachment has lifted this palling veil
And as dust settles, and conversation withers,
Confusion consumes me.
Did it matter?
This... behaviour, befitting unfamiliarity;
Grating as it was,
And tearing, as it did,
At the skin of my fingertips?
Yes, I thought...
No, they said.
Ignorance, they said, is bliss.
Yet I’m unfazed.
Perhaps, relieved;
I will move on, I say
Comfort comes, whether detached or displaced
Even if that comfort be
From scratching at the skin of my fingertips.
