Broken Gauge In A Gas Crisis

He was pining for something that didn't exist.
In all likelihood, it was something that had never existed.
This was both comfort and pain.
Intangible constructs, memory, longing,
the sources of so much anguish,
the heart of so much Art,
part of the condition borne by simply being.
The sun barreling through your window,
forcing a squint,
your eyes adjusting to radiant force.
Sound strains over echoes of empty streets.
Has he missed the boat on Love, normalcy,
sanity? Faces so happy to proselytize the good life
while offering you none in return.
Oh, how he wished he were beautiful,
how he wished he could sing with a voice
fit for a choir of angels.
How he wishes each word he wrote
could live a life immortal from his own.
He pined for the absence of absence,
a needful togetherness, a touch that is inimitable,
a kiss that is connectable, a love that is infallible.
Instead, the fretted typing of a fundamental lack,
that which pains and propels. Such fuel is of indeterminate
sustenance. One thing is sure, it is bound to run out.
The gauge is broken, only the sputtering sounds
of a run down engine will let us know for sure.