the body i live with
is not comfortable with me,
expressed in a voice
without sound
that is an occasional harmony.

escaping the body
i live with
into fantasy
becomes just as tiring
and repetitive
and repetitive
as the days of flesh,
and produces only blank maps
and nebulous passion,
little ecstasy in comparison
and not even a trace of edifice.

the body i live with
does not appreciate
the thoughts that keep it restless
in the early hours,
the ones i won't part with.

in the waking night,
the body's muscles ache,
but secretly,
its imagination gallops.
crossing distance, never reaching you.