There is an art:
which each of us create
anew with each encounter,
whatever day.
…safely exhilarating…
…securely coy…
…furtive, fleeting, taboo…
though willingly innate.
silent observers swear by it:
the glance, the presence, the immense haughtiness.
innocent…yet charged with minute passion.
a glance met…
as a mask slides upon each player’s face:
a mute drama begins.
around each involvee a force field emerges:
actions of the other magnified,
leaving all else oblivious.
engaged in this duel of strangers two,
interest is feigned upon all else but the other,
so daringly they counter each other’s broach of space.
The untouched brush:
so close, so close…
to reach out and trace a finger upon….
yet moment by moment intimacy,
cannot purely connect them.
so there one and one,
stay each unknown:
to continue their glance
to continue their silent dance…
intotheindigo 