Paper Glass

it feels like
pressing my face against a glass wall, thin
or did I forget the “I am” in that sentence?
You watch the circles of those who know
what they want, but not why
they want it.
You only
know nothing;
but feel everything,
and you’re not sure whether
a time like this is so very wrong,
or this is the way it is meant to be.

If I took myself into the air,
removed my clothes and circled
back down, feet
on warm moist tiles
and pressed my body
against the glass…
there’d be a different feeling,
an open declaration
you’d know everything.
Now is just a reminiscence of the future,
you don’t even want to touch the glass.

I’m not sure whether you see me or not,
condensation makes it hard to tell,
sometimes I think I see you smile, look down,
knowing my antics just say “love”
from the inside out.
Sometimes I think
I must be a ghost
for the way your eyes reflect me and I don’t even see myself,

You’re sitting on the Porta-Loo of justice,
I don’t know what’s inside your head but
I think you’ve run out of paper.
I’d pass some under the glass but
there is no space.

Through the spot in the glass where my breast used to be
I see you, connecting with
your own little form of god
you look to me, we feel beauty,
you look up –

I throw it over.

April ’06


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

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All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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