I press quiet against the glass
and you press up against yours
In halls and paths we’ll never pass,
confined to walls and just one door.
We’re soft, we’re hard, we weep and toil
graveyard plants in potted soil
The gardener and the bots, you see
tend to us so carefully
We’re framed with dreams of love and sky
never seeing with our eyes
She dreams of fires beside the beach
his eyes, his soul, his gilded speech
But glass and prints of hand remain
All our dreams are in a frame
I am electric – you are too
The charge is gone then so are you
Dare she throw the cord away
and touch his hand in bright of day?
And then out of the room she grew
no gardener, no bots of blue
She walked barefoot along his path
Her breath a cloud upon his glass
He saw her face beyond the frame
everything was not the same
Skin so pale – not strong – but weak
“You are not the one I seek.
go back behind your frame of blue.
I am me, but who are you?”