"It is what it is."
"It usually is." I said 

Hands trembling at 
the thought of 
your lips brush 
against my ear 
whispering in tones 
i cannot speak, nor sketch, nor 
can I paint for you a picture
 it has been silent 
since the sun set 
the cars outside have stopped 
their idle chattering whine, their roaring 
engines drawn into the distance

There's been a chill in here 
your hands 
give off an electric tumbling shock 
magnetic rumbles fumbling their 
way down my arms and through 
my arms 
have fused in two 
my back: fingers fixed into my flesh 
I have often found myself wondering 
what does it feel like to be
inside a person 
to make oneself their 
Here and Now 
to make one's self  
a figment of reality

I imagine it is dry, a firm 
embracing of the chest and nothing 
more than 
spoken sounds are 
simple words still uncommitted 
I imagine that it must have- wait
it's weightless as
the moon
is drawn into
its center 
is gravity drawn down to the earth
Weightless

It sees itself as one
reflected as 
I see myself
reflect
on its reflection in my window
beaming brighter on
my face
is watched  - and blushes brighter still
 it shimmers          it knows
     it is not real         revolts
       this revolution          broken 
          against its own mistrusted orbit 
       falls face first 
    on to the glass
reflecting on itself

And curtains.
My mind is drawn by curtains 
drawn across 
how many lines? 
There are no curtains on our bedroom windows and
I find myself 
gazing away, musing - suddenly 
distracted by some detail
I had not thought to ponder before:
   Windows
      This house is made of windows
          And they are glass.

                --S.I.B, "Raine"