She is beautiful.
Her face illuminates the room.
But you can guess there is something
uncomfortable, perhaps, disturbing
about her.

She never shows her hands.
Things gravitate towards her
but she does not touch them.

Did she ever hold that cup?
What about her hair?
Who has moved that lock
.      away from her eyes?

..    .     ..

It feels like a galaxy is inside.
A planetary presence, in our living room.
A mineral edge to her smile
a burning cold gaze
creating a domestic tide.

The furniture, turned magnetic, changes position.
[Yes, that carpet, is closer to my feet
than it was at quarter past midnight!]

I’m in outer space
while stuck to this armchair.
We are all satellites
a teatime constellation
gathered indoors.

I look back at her
and only half her face radiates, now.

I notice her face
and I can see
she has no hands
.             no feet
.                 no body.

Her dark hair is made of gas.
She is fading behind it.

She is here
I can feel her near
but I can no longer see her.

..    .    ..

It’s morning
the light is strong
and our polite night visitor
has dissolved out.

..

.
..

.