"That's a dancing shadow,"
you tell me.
"That's a silent song.
Listen; can you tell me what you hear?"

I guess
I can hold your hand now,
after all this.
So I do.
It's warm
but distant.
They tell me that
no one surface in this world
ever really touches another;
something,
electricity
or air
or energy
will always keep them apart.
Or something like that.
The point is
I can prove this,
for I have held your hand
I have heard your words,
Ethereal,
meaningless to my ears,
but beautiful.

"One more time,"
you ask.
"Where are we?"

"Here,"
I answer,

and this seems to satisfy you.