Spinning spheres of hollowness,

drifting ghosts of neon-washed,

white-faced,

candle-lit

beauties;

one hand hesitating,

drawing back,

from the gentle light;

what we long for, we shun,

clutching the black with the other.

Ach, would that each saw the picture.

Sometimes,

one only seems to grasp

sharp-edged puzzle pieces.