I saw the twisted ropes flare up
Saw them fall down.  Saw them
Strike the back of some hand 
But not my hand.  It wasn’t my hand.

I recognized the bitten fingernails,
polish-less.  And I felt the pain 
incurred: sharp, direct, driven.
But it didn’t hurt.  Not like it should have.

Sometimes when I close my eyes,
I see you there.  Sometimes you stand 
Over me, you’re a lot taller than me, 
I like that.  That’s how I see you.

Up.  I have to look up.  Today
I haven’t much to say, looking up.
And I haven’t much to say, looking down.
It may be unhealthy that we best express 
Ourselves, together, whilst thwartwise -- 
Good that we haven’t been.

The pain’s come as due, all of it 
Completely unrelated to you.  It’s just
That I recognize your hands, from before,
And they still look a lot like my own.