Sunday, November 13, 2005

just reach out and touch.
promise it won't hurt.
if i bite off a finger,
just pretend i didn't,
and my face.
they say it's cold, uptight,
it looks dead to me,
but what's the distinction?
so much space between me
and my reflection.
anyway, with the blood
from your finger,
my visage, both warm and alive.
i hold such warm memory
and such alive expectation.
between these, elusive focal point,
found only in the deep field.


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