Self-awareness is a poet's disease

I heard the tap water dripping
in the sink. My skin, and tiny
hair folicles twitching against
the moisture filling the air.
Inaudible sounds filling the spaces
leaking into my porous consciousness.

I noticed the way my breath halted,
eased out, and drew back in. I
never think so much about these little
things in others. I never need to
because I know myself, and others
are reflections upon the ripples in the
obfuscating temporal wake left within
words etched upon moments in time.

The little things aren't. I can't help
but notice. My actions are mechanical magic:
cause and effect in blissful metaphysical
incantation. Your skin is malleable like clay,
you know, if you would locate a mirror
not so steeled. Monolithic temptations
in defining one's self leads to a false
sense of gravity. You, in fact, are floating
on wispy strands beyond these fingertips.

Don't dream of sexual chimeras. Mortal
wounds are pinpricks of ecstacy if delivered
correctly to the heart. This wishful love
slips into a craven valley of patchwork
desires. I can build a mountain in twisted
dreams and wonder if they truly belong to me.

I can climb ladders and lattice fences. Nothing
is mine. I am just a patron of my existence.

Which explains nearly nothing, inexplicably.