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.