I live my life behind glass
that sharpens and accentuates and darkens
and yet the colours are not
quite the same.
Take away the glass and life blurs
but the colours--oh, so bright!
and I have missed their brightness.
I will tolerate the fuzzed words
All it takes is your breath
or the touch of your finger
to blind me and leave me trapped
in a world of smears.
Your fingerprints block my vision.
You remove them, apologise--
but that is a wicked smile, my friend,
a gleeful mischief in your own eyes,
hidden behind their own glass walls.
I smudge them in return.
Now we are both blind.
That is best, I think, for the sight
of your hollowed cheeks and dyed hair
is still haunting me, months on,
and if I cannot see you
and you cannot see me
I do not have to consider the fact
that perhaps I haunt you too.
Yet if I remove the panes of glass
so smudged and smeared and blinding
I can see you.
And your edges are softer,
but the colours
are so bright.