It Comes From The Air

Lines on a page,
blue and red,
create a sensation-
a light touch,
a hand on my forearm;
scratching,
scraping,
pulling and
willing me on.


Fingers at the top of my spine;
eyes seeing through my own-
as a camera
through a blinking television.


"Perhaps this has happened before."
words hanging in the air for a moment...


the TV goes blank


the fingers recoil into black


and I'm truly alone-


staring at familiar lines on a page as they slowly fill
with words that are somehow
my
own.