what does one do when all of the weighty pressures of the world are staring straight in the face, incarnate?
when i am sitting inside of a coffee shop with my nice computer and my nice things and your fingertips are pressed against the window and your physicality renders me defenseless because i am told to be both afraid of you and pity you.
i feel neither and both.
i feel like putting my fingers up to the glass.
but instead i look at my screen and only glance up.
you are soaked with sweat.
you are everything.
who am i when i look away?
who am i when i meet your gaze?
what am i doing when i am motionless but the gears inside of my skull turn rapid-fast
and my heart feels gripped by your hand
separated by flesh
by a crap-load of things
i want to flip over the tables like He did
TO WHOM DOES THIS SPACE BELONG IF NOT TO THE BODY ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE WINDOW