MarcCopeland

I like to think of you reaching for me in the shared darkness of our mutual ignorance Trying to make out my shape, reaching behind my defences if only I would allow you to Ignoring my voice in preference to your other senses as my words told you of sharp edges When you were able to feel the softness of spheres inside of me I reached for you, too, perhaps as a child reaches for their mother, for comfort, for hope I held pieces but they were jumbled and lacked a language to bind them to a shape A shape you could make out the longer you stayed and the harder you peered into darkness Eyes adjusting slowly to the light and hands slowly pulling cu