Oh that I were a fog, a mist
Of this world, but, like smoke,
furled about more solid things,
and yet unhurt by their passing.
To caress the object of desire
and conjure up upon the cheek
A dew, a sentimental moisture,
And yet if I were fog, then how could I feel?
How could I love?
Never to know the gentle touch,
meant for me and me alone,
Because I had some substance,
Some solidity for someone…somewhere.
So perhaps it is better to stand firm and let the waves crash upon you
And find it is something,
not to be,