Forbidden

Like a beautiful painting
Only to look at, not to touch
Full of illusion and falsehood
The appearance of permanence
— — Of tactility
— — Of softness
Like a massive cotton ball
— — A giant, fluffy beanbag
— — A comforter that swallows you whole
But they’re not
They’re wet
— — and cold
— — and dark
Much better to just stand back
And admire them from a distance
Because clouds are excellent liars