nose to nose

It was a fifty-foot statue

across from me.

Eight times my scale

yet nose to nose.

Can’t tell the gender

the face is too wide

for me to know quite yet.

Probably because I am standing

too close for that.

But nose to nose.

Some kind of porous material

makes for large pores

in comparison to mine.

An aquiline nose,

I guess you’d call it.

It makes me self-conscious

because the eyes look past me,

but would look through me

if I were standing back at all.

And if I were a person of stature

at that scale,

we would be locked

in some kind of conversation

of epic proportions

on a wide screen.

Camera close up

with a wide angle pan including us,

revealing thousands of soldiers

or loyalists of sorts,

intent upon response

to our any gesture

if offered their way.

Response by any movement

from our eyes or arms

but no,

now we are only nose-to-nose.

Supposedly human to stone.

My mind must be working overtime

and I think of this because of you.

Because of your presence

with me sometimes.

Maybe it is just the way

I feel for you.

But it seems to be

coming off of you

or out of you

when I am like this to myself.

I appreciate that you are here

in my life,

almost bigger then life.

So I reach out to touch you

and you are not stone,

not eight times my scale,

gendered in our conversation.

My face must be flush

at least on the inside to me.

In reality

only your concave cosmetic mirror

can make your nose look like that.

I reflect on that image

in the back of my mind.

Comparisons aside,

shape and body heat

and the shading of anatomy,

in light falling off the day

upon you now,

here I am again

with eyes as preemptors.

Voices inside me

that about those images

that seizes my eyes.

I am sitting too close to the screen

of my being of me.

The clothes of my experience

feel unusually tight.

I have forgotten my m.o.

about casual wear.

I am a first time visitor here.

Every moment is again and again

in this meeting.

Why is what is coming off of you,

coming off of your field

being absorbed by me?

What ethereal fluid is this

that seeps into me

as if I were a sponge

coming on to it

from the dead of dry?

Is it a thirst or a compliment

or a necessity

that another side of me

is compelling in this absorption?

Are we but conduits

for the savants of us within

to engage each other,

to step through without notice,

as if they were a Candida

upon our appetites

and kibbutz in general?

And on occasions, like this one,

are voracious with loud mouths

and resolute to stage themselves,

dismissing us

as a wardrobe of bodies

to act out on their own behalf.

I was there.

I mean we,

have been there for that.

We have been that

before each other.

We have been there before,

there beyond meaning.

We have acted out as them

and thought it was surreal.

We have considered it very primal

while they thought it quite sweet.

We felt it was abrasive

while they found it

to be without seams.

We scared each other through it

and they seemed amused.

Are we made of it?

Is it an it not to be objectified?

An it without boundaries?

An it of some type of spiritual means?

A sacrilegious it of our two persons,

not knowing precious from peat moss?

What to do?

And here I am originally,

nose to nose.

Assuming it is / was

my metaphor for you.