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
