Liquid Sand, Riddle Man

History repeats itself back to the Age of Glass
a frail world governed by fear
where we tiptoe over translucent barriers
living behind screens.
We reflect what they wants us to be
like the mirrors that hang in
delicately adorned homes
under roofs that refuse to shatter.
Walls created to protect some
but cage most.

Glass people
one step closer and they break
pull back and they’ll crack.

He believes he is made of glass.
His body told me his very spine is laced with
crystalline silicate
the night he untangled himself from
the web of my affection.

“Your heat,” he whispers.
“Your arms,” he says, tracing his cold glass fingers along my shoulders,
“your warmth will shatter me, do you understand?”
The union of a man and a riddle –
his favorite punctuation is a question mark.

What does it mean exactly, to be vulnerable?