she covers my eyes, and not even light
dares to slip through her fingers.
she tells me to look harder, deeper
and she whispers sweet everythings
and suddenly the void she has gifted me
seeps through my eyelids and
leaks into my sockets, and I see
everything I have ever wanted.

she holds my hand like no one else has,
palm to palm, and she whispers empty rhythms,
psalm to psalm, the ghost of a dream resting
its head against my chest, bated breath,
vapours of impossibility, tickling, fooling me.
her fingertips bite into the soft flesh, but
the only pain I feel is her/my hand around my/her neck.

when illusions collide, do they fall further into delusion?
or are they decapitated by reality?

they call her helplessness,
I call her finality,
and she tells me she is mine,
but I know I am hers.