I am

In a frosted box

Looking out

Finger tips touching

At versions

Of I am,

The ones who

Play the games

Of work niceties,

Bills and things.

Now and then

For a second,

Just one or two,

A light shimmers,

Warming the walls

Of this box,

Making them bend.

And I reach

Out,

Searching for the softness

Of a hand

I once held.