He danced in light, son of the Wind,
And colored the minds below.
She was too deep, locked in herself,
But he still had inarticulately tried
To convey his longing in light.

When he asked the girl
What her name was, she replied,
"I am the Marianas Trench,"
And he blinked, smashing lashes
In a vain effort
To extract an answer not forthcoming.
She gazed blankly, concealing
Three million dying hopes
Faintly sparkling within her depths.
He bashfully cast his eyes
Downward to conceal his own
Inner turmoil.
"I am the Aurora Borealis,"
He finally yelped as his fingers drummed
Notes in the tension between them.
A light flickered across her
Black eyes, flitting to his own.
Quickly extinguished, it
Carried within it her slipped
Composure and raw yearning.
He drew breath, and the coronas
Of his eyes slid to meet hers,
Blank once more.
Before she could bolster
Her dwindling courage,
He was leaving, taking with
Him all her color.
"Don't!" She pleaded.
Her cheeks flushed magenta.
He blanched, his eyes dark.
But he was far from her,
Shrouded in light
That could never color
The stone walls she built.
Miles high, she hoped
They touched his sky someday.
Until then, she was hidden,
Sound, and he was brilliant, lost.

i know that i am on the cusp of something
the graceful lip
and with each passing second
i am leaving the person i once was

my fingertips dwell on hers,
clammy- i liked her very much
and i try to shake my views
of myself as a battered frisk upon
the roiling waves of circumstance
beneath my quaking keel

i'm behind glass,
enclosed with condensation
with each of my ragged inhalations
and with chipped nails
i sketch pictures of who it is
that i want to be
but, still, i cannot quite make her out-
the lines are blurred and
my breath erases her
i am unable to see the future clearly
if i truly live

I

Now I have been you
walking indifferent
with you walking
opposite.
I haven't noticed
that you haven't
noticed me.
I didn't return
your glance,
I was checking traffic,
crossing the street,
and dissapearing.

II

Now I have been you,
holding
the hand-blown glass sphere
in my hands.
Were you conscious,
as I should be,
of the necessary delicacy?
Did you notice
the intricate composition,
or have we both grown
too familiar
with our object?