My Half Of...

The recording light is on

I’m seeing from your eyes

a moving x-ray inside your body too.

Your sweat smells like mine.

Our connectors sprout out

cords from skill to art

fitting into strangely shaped

synaptic swirls of

improbable possibility.

The sound of your voice shows me.

The empty places between words

Where your pathways are on fire,

a maze chess game, but

you’re not a traditional player.

Now you can follow me.

I could heal you

if you would let me

unsettle you.