my skin
is thin and
swimmingly scrim.
the moonface
pushpulls me.
i am
moved
too much.
i am
not enough
mover.
i am *****
given,
all too often.
i am
not
me -
i am you
in your supine
palm.
i matter
little.
my
molecules
are
fast
becoming
transparent,
vibrating with the sound
of your voice, which
seems real
-so real-
real
like
when
the kitchen
sink
disposal
runs.