Inside Living Poem by Harry Irene

If I was to draw the strokes of your cheeks,
Would I feel the same to touch them?
When the mines are in my head,
How do I know if I misstepped?

If I was to stare at the sun,
Should I crack a smile to break the ice?
When the lights are out,
Can I trust my shadow to come back?

Smoke rises to rain down on us.
Speech was nothing; I was taut.
I'll branch out to catch the most sun,
Yet the location's wrong,
With four walls an a ceiling.
Inside's the perfect living.