Eye contact becomes obsolete 

behind cameras where I see the

homemade mask resting around

her neck quiet as a silk scarf, 

pulling her voice closer. We might

have met in reality, during the old

outdoor sunsets and other ordinary

miracles. My smile shone on her

sunglasses, while the breeze from 

her nostrils itched my stubble. Yet,

the press conferences and the sign 

interpreters dispatched us to glaring

and estranged horizons. We waited.

The truth is that

we are not real.

When did our

honesty slip off?

If only she could 

reach out and slap 

me, the spice of

burning would wake

me from the endless

dreaming of touch.   

John Cai