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proximity doesn't mean physical sufficiency,
it's the closeness of intuition 
based on...

hands dig where emptiness used to lay,
as he pulls the mask down with a slow drag.
knuckles grazing his lips as he continues to play,
this game where he stops being a man,
and starts playing conductor.

fingertips playing with keys 
as if he was playing a sonata
on a finely-crafted baldwin,
but his compositions
are different instrumentals,
with clicks and breaths,
laughs and chatters,
ticks and checks.

he held the greatest weapon
at the ends of his oily fingertips.
he was the world-famous actor
without an Oscar to his name,
but with plenty of Sarahs,
Bills, Johns, Lisas, and Kates.

because what he'd do, was do more
than rattle your emotions
for a fleeting moment-- NO.
he'd snake inside of your vulnerabilities
and rest in them.
lie his eggs down in between
your rib cage and that little spark
in your chest, and turn the switch on.
and he'd visit his spawns,
tend to them, carry on.
leave, carry on.
oh, he's on Facebook?
"he just got on."
"hey loves"
"bye babes"
"i'll love you as far as the moon
and space."

he's signed out.

and you clutch your tiny laptop
and hope and pray,
the person you've known to be
on the other side of that screen
is who he claims.

but don't you know?
snakes lie in tall grass,
they take place and take shape
in empty space.
ssssssssssslithering echos
crawl in canals
of dull halls,
scattered scrawls.
this was an orchestra
based off...