None of your names have faces and
none of your faces have names.
You are an amorphous shifting thing.
Amoebic and mercurial
through invisible gaps between my fingers.
I cannot get a firm grasp.
To hold you would be to understand you
But you elude and allude
turning in concentric circles as if you were
a frightful piñata.
I don't hold a stick.
I hold an open hand.
Just be bold.
Take hold of us and jump.
Whether there is a net shouldn't matter.
If we sprout wings and soar
or crash to the dust below
we will do it with a whoop.
The air rushing from our lungs
so hurried and sure of itself
possessed of a bravery we can only hope to know.
But that air was borrowed.
Breathed in unaware
its vital parts taken.
It flees from us.
We have been borrowed.
Our vital parts taken.
We fled and
found ourselves here
standing at a precipice together.
Our hands wishing to share their heat
while our minds resist the unnerving
unwitting bond the flesh would form.