yet, i talk to you as is the fashion
of the forwards of books by unknown authors
eyes an unblinking display, closed signals
of a time we used to talk, exploding into vowels and vapor
fingers stretching out, collapsible on contact with light
we were magnificent, living dead along a vertical bed
now i decode teleprompts in the eyes of strangers
as private, momentary thoughts we had
walking along a street i meet you from another time
almost holding the hand of the other, lover?
you do not see me,
but our reflections quiver on banking halls’ walls, signals
ferrying our souls to the park, the café, or, alas, back home
alone to a pile of laundry, mothballs, books, dolls.
for now, adjustable prosthetic limbs, you balance on flat heels
contemplate new and emerging markets for
the experiments we call dreams,
forgetting when we invented a different language
to be broadcast through touch.
its etymology a thing hidden in the future
our eyes are now coated
in the mascara of strangers
a film of gold
paves our vision as soon as a blink is possible
the languages we are busy forgetting
our only accomplice.