Your hands are soft.
Your fingers achingly so.
They lie silently,
Motionless on either side of a vision,
Comparable to Heine’s Rhineside portrait.
In my esteem at least.
A curious porcelain mask
That wafts in front of
My eyes and drags
My thoughts
Dangerously northward.
You are far.
And I will soon be further.
Thus is life it would seem.
One could be forgiven for assuming
That this would get easier.
Thank god it doesn’t.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 