22. Shrouded In Mystery

You sit across me
and your porcelain facade
casts a shadow on the floor,
as opaque as your blank gaze.

I look up, and meet
your eyes, and I  turn away,
eyes burning, blinking away
the afterimages of your form.

It did me little to no good.

My nervous hands–
the attempt at permanence
leaking its fear through digits–
slip and slide against the metal.

Snaps silent as the
breath of a finger flying across
the screens of my point of view,
I adore you, grasped in my eyes.

Clutched in my hand,
technology paves the way to
carving you into my conscious;
you, shrouded in your mystery.

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