What’s that in your hands.
My fingers unfurled like wings from the larvae
In my palms and it felt indecent to peep
Through its translucent skin (Though I still stared
Hard and your breath came closer too)
We watched it squirm inside the shell,
Beneath its skin that is not skin. Fingernails.
What’s that in your hands. I am holding a snow-globe
To the blur of your enlarged face. A metaphorical one.
Really it is the lift sinking past ground level. I watched you
On the other side of its descent through translucent glass.
The lift: A shadow blocking out the light, or
Feeling the light slide across my face
Such that I thought of
Frosted glass in a hotel room, lying in bed
Watching the shadow of you showering.
Listening to water from the shower head.
“What’s that in your hands.” You tightened
The clasp of your fingers and stared down
Harder, at your colour-shifting knuckles.
Your face blotched with red too, a cuttlefish’s mimicry,
Under your skin that is no skin. You
Still burn under my inquiry. I can no longer peep into
Your eyes anymore. You are guilty of something but you will
Never say so I can only learn to love you at a distance.
(Not really but) At least
I can still watch you from the outside, the
Other side. In this hotel room the sound of water stops.
I watched you step away from the frosted glass to dry yourself
But you never came out of the shower.
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