She offered me a hand, and in a moment of disbelief and delusion, I thought I might reach to hold it. But now things are in their right place again: as I reached for that elusive grip, she backed away and let my fingers feel the cold air of nothing. Back to where I began; fallen, in a pit, no light in sight. My friend tells me, it's all my fault, that I shouldn't have hesitated the way I did. That may be, I say, but why fault something if it leads to a state of right? I close my eyes and accept that the touch will belong to someone else. I am left instead to grab at the air, slowly getting the sense that my hands themselves are softly disintegrating. Perhaps when I am no longer solid, the air and I will have a chance to make it through together.