My eyes are ghosts

Hollow pupils and floating irises-
my gaze haunts my surroundings
as I perch in my shadow- watching.
People are outlines wobbling
and tumbling over each other,
and I scrutinize the blurring
of smiles, hands and individuality.
I enjoy when they read out loud
and become all mouths and nervous limbs.
Once, I have been told my look
is hands that reach out and pry and pluck
at the frayed ends of my subjects.
They ask me what I say,
and ask me why
do I let my eyes rest upon
their shifting mouths, fluttering eyes,
and avoidance tactics.
I tell them I am a fortune teller,
and their body language
spells out hours of card readings,
and spirtual connections.
I tell them I hold seances for them
every night, and use their loose strand words
to bring them alive until the next morning.
These people ask me if I know their future-
if I know their trauma tormenting
the empty rooms of their mind.
They want me to give them an answer
because I spend so long staring
and absorbing their movements.
I ask them if they want me to become
their every motion.
I ask if they wish to disappear
into my fingertips and let me
hold their pain within my palms.
They are scared as if I will devour them,
and I tell them I am not the monster
within their empty rooms.
I am not a fortune teller.
I am a bird watcher observing the local fowl
preen and dance before my eyes.


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