FINGERS ON THE GLASS

Window-pane

with traces of moisture,spirals

of each finger's tip

pressed firmly, leaning, against

the transparent division

Separating;

inside from outside,

warmth from cold,

sound from sound,

opulence from poverty,

You and I.

Though we may see each other,

only the sun crosses between us, blindly

penetrating the partition

and revealing, for a moment, my reflection

against the sky;

our eyes, together.

Place your hands on mine

and we touch different sides

of the same witness

to our cool familiarity.

Close your eyes, easily.

Nothing,

just fingers on the glass.

Poem by Alex- copyright