Between Us

I wondered once, about how close I felt to some authors reading their work. Is there some higher part of our brain that knows them and they know their readers, because the bond feels so intimate.

Poet, my fellow poet,
How intimate are we?
Who share the same breath?
Who share the caresses
of shining pebble words?

I am still, sitting there,
creased book, solid chair,
attention high and twirling hair,
blushing indecent as I stare.

You somewhere penned this array,
removed in time and far away,
your voice leads thoughts astray,
Poet to Poet, souls on display.

How deeply do we engage?
I pressing finger to the page,
you touching from your age,
intrigue barely kept in its cage.

My mind to your courting fell,
residing now within my shell,
syncope that rings my bell,
do I breath within you as well?

So close in thought I hush,
mind to mind, so close we crush.
But on the street, in daily rush,
would we know our hands if they brushed?

Lover of my heart,
Beloved of my soul,
Separated by sight,
You who knows my everything,
only by ink and page.

Author's Note

comments and crits welcome.