The day my hand stopped moving was
the day i failed to meet you
so i cut a hole in the space before me
to craft a face as yours, a door, see
and i'd have you look upon me
while removing all surface meaning
so that you might see the real thing
that i am and not the loathing
pause
breathe in
begin again
exhaling, my hand a motion takes
untethered the past emotion fakes
a smile suggests an ocean breaks
a dam for brown eyes - burning.
