Living Outside the Bubble

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There is a bubble
that I can’t get through,
no matter what I try
I can’t get in.
It moves and I can touch people inside
yet the skin of the bubble is between their hands and mine.
Someone laughs at my joke.
Another smiles and invites me in to talk.
I go.
I sit.
I talk.
I laugh.
I eat.
I drink.
I dance.
It feels alright.
And then as I leave the bubble pushes against me
as if hurrying me away,
reminding me of it’s presence,
strengthening into a thicker wall
with each step I take.
As sure as I breathe
I was never really inside the bubble
with everyone else.
I’m not part of the people inside the bubble.
I don’t belong.
I ask, come see my world,
here outside the bubble
and there are polite mutterings
that say no.
No thank you, but
no.
And when I’m out of sight
when the bubble has pushed me far enough
I no longer exist
inside the bubble.
No matter how I push
the bubble doesn’t break.
It’s so thin I feel the ridges of their fingerprints
when we touch.
I feel the hugs and the lips brushed on my cheek
but the film holds me back
again and again.
I can’t remove it
or break it
or open it.
The bubble wins.






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