Voice

We were shadows

tripping on tongues like weightless quills

spilling into pools of deep blue sapphire ink

ghosts suspicious of the sea

we are ghosts suspicious of ghosts

confining to a finite truth 

within the infinite

like monkeys

clinging to rocks

while staring

at the moon

upon the shoulders of a stumbling galaxy

We are not the story

but the page

and hence

entranced with a screen

and yet

unable to comprehend

the tipping point

of language

clinging to the separation of thought as though

the air i breathe

isn't the air your lungs just gave me and 

I 

discover

a demarcation

between the characters

of

say

and see.