Sometimes I dare to fantasize about how your eyes would feel in my gut once they meet mine.
A clawing perhaps, an agonizing gnawing like starvation or butterflies before public speaking I imagine.
Would I get used to it? Probably never.
Regardless of space-time your soul gazes at mine when the clock strikes dream-time.
I wake up to myself and try to forget your place in this *****.
In this safe house of memories that lie naked and dormant.
Potential energy that begs in wavelengths to please draw closer.
Maybe these punches will soften as I get older.
The memory of love lost left to die in a box rotting images of a parallel reality
sweeter than Radha and Krishna.