Bits of tracing paper.

Sometimes I can feel you stretching through paper,
seeking out my face
and maybe my inside s .
Time again.

Extending my finger tips
and my senses-
nothing. Except the watery salt licking my skin
as oceans of reality break me.
You aren't under the milky way tonight.

Leaving the wood in the pencil, you absorbed it's life giving lead.
Taking the paint from the brush, you've given me a real piece
to chew on.
Choking on what you didn't give,
I wonder about the lin"k"s between
places
and people.