I baptise my hands for fear of bad luck
Constantly bathing them with curses
I dump my lover for fear of being alone
In case she abandons me
I drink excessively for fear I drink
Far too much for my own good 

She existed in enclosed sets,
In scenes she would never have put herself in.
Looking out at a world she had no part in,
Trapped behind the screen in a perpetual past,
Played over and over in black and white;
The audience completely in the dark
As to the reality that involved her. 

She would glide effortlessly,
Lead him through the more complex moves,
Discreetly push the chairs aside,
Through the evenings slow eclipse
The one long, lingering kiss.

Touch

I love water.
I love the way it knows every curve in the rock,
every crevice of the mountain,
how it finds its way over things, under things, through things.
Water is a traveler who carves its own road.
There is no obstacle that can withstand its slow and patient craftsmanship.
I love how it will take centuries to smooth a pebble that will fit perfectly into your palm. I put my hand in the water
because I know no other way to know something is real.
It must be felt. It must be in my hand.