Finding your fingers in the dark, guiding me to your lips.

My hands are a stranger’s to you, a mass of overgrown vines.

They tangle your fingers, boasting no escape.

Your face, a blank slate, the outline traced by my hands.

The darkness now my lover, a new friend, a welcome companion.

The cooled leather of your shoes brushing my fingertips.

My words falling through your ghost, meeting the wall instead.