Form is such an aspect

of being.

Its a time. Its a place.

Its the subtle curves,

and past mistakes.


Cut holes in the sheets.

Dance here and now,

pretend to be ghosts.

When we know,

there must be,

something,

underneath.

Nakedness is tangible.

On yourself, on another.

As real as cloth

When shared,

when rubbed between fingers.

When smelled.

All that is communicated

in a touch,

means nothing.

Other than, I’m here.

I’m right here

too.