Fingerprints masked by fingertips, false and finite fingertips.

Gloved hands, trapping me, trapping you.

Fingers folded into fabric, fabric folded into felt.

Subtle, supple fabric, shadowed, black as pitch.

Twilight in the moonlight, but transparent now and then.

For when those fingers, clothed in felt, pass softly through the wall,

the skin is pale as glass of ice,

translucent to behold.

Gloved in that soft fabric, one's skin passes through all matter,

as if it were naught at all.

Touch, then, is a superpower,

a gift for all to feel.

A sense to ignite passion,

more false than all the rest.

They say that eyes decieve you,

and sound is altered too,

but when one takes the glove,

slipped over their wrist,

they yield up all sensation,

for when ones powers are superhuman,

all life is gloved, is blind -

and magical lies, they are not kind.