You tiptoe through blades
of wet grass, dancing into moon beams
that cut the night like glass.
Your fingers shape pictures in the air,
gentle and restless as birds.
I want to hold you in my arms but I worry
that to do that would break the spell
–would break you.
You are porcelain,
beautiful and brittle in this quiet island of time.
I want to hear the music that moves you.
I want to know what pictures you see,
that your fingers
trace so carefully.
I want you to trace me like that.

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