You won’t see me when I enter. The crystals of glass
gliding past as I ride a sliver of moon glow
through your window and crumple to your floor.
You won’t see me when I rise and survey
the scene. A foreign body by your side. Books you’ll never
read. I slip a gossamer thumb into your slumbered
mind. Let me finger through your dreams. Taste you
from the inside. I’m not sure why I chose to arrive. But I’ll move
an object enough to leave a mark. And now, like before. You won’t
see me. I leave quietly in the night. The last thing you’d want
is an encore.