Between two formless realities I watch the worlds pass by

Never changing, but always in the midst of life,

Of which I have none.

There was once a young man who stood before me often.

At night, when the door was closed, we would play a game.

On the outside I would show him a picture of his masculinity

Naked, sometimes perverse,

And always with a hungry, lustful look in his eyes.

But on the inside he would show me a beautiful naked lady wrapped around him,

While they explored all the different ways that they could touch.

He always seemed to enjoy this game

Because he would smile when it was over.

Then later in the faint moonlight, I would see him clutching his pillow tightly

With a pained and lonely expression on his face.

One day he flatly asked me, “Why am I not good enough?”

But I flatly had no answer.

None other knows him as I do, for I know him as he knows himself.

While they look through their perceptions,

I stare at my own reflections

And I wonder if this makes us both the same.




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