so quietly in between
Every other month, so that I wonder if
It is really you that I see coming through the fog
And into the greenhouse.
When she leans against the walls, it is white on white and almost camouflage
She hates the word 'chameleon' and says
It sounds too much like losing breath and cowardice.
Let's disappear inside a small doorway, where we will go
Slide into place on velvet cushions
(and watch the singer through a curtain of our hair)
I am dizzy, I am spiraled into a thick room where
Scented cards turn to dust when they are touched (I will turn to dust
When I am touched)