My fingers walk alone
Through both corridors, mac and mic
Dressed and dressing down
While I'm on my back dreaming of the shy

(Will the breeze touch gently? -mutable to my will
But I prefer the kind kindred hand.)

A soft echo escapes my lips,
Self-conscious, even when alone
Raises no higher than a whisper.

These fingers of mine trail moisture
From drawing so many circles
On the inside of the walls
While I'm on my back daydreaming of the shy

(Pinky swear / both hands on the brush
Drawing and grasping and fading the canvas.)

The walkthrough quickens and slows,
Quickens until the journey cannot end,
Left to a point where a new one must begin.

(I imagined someone else entering the corridor-
the door held open, and becoming the corridor.)

Eyes closed I sigh and dream about the shy.