These dreams
attached
to that which
cannot be
feel so real
in settings that
are surreal.
Confusion sets the theme
an unending quest to obtain
The precious state
of being
of a need
to close that chapter
which I have been unable
to read for loss of a last page.
I always see the face that only looks away.
I weakly plead
to be regarded,
lowering my guard to demonstrate
my need, my willingness
to feel.  
Scenes like these change
and the choices hold
one consistent course. 
 In these dreams
I can barely speak above a whisper.
I become enraged, and try to scream,
so impotent
to feel so inconsequential.  
I often wake and lay still.
Struggling to recall details
just to be
once more unable
to do anything more than wonder.  
Will I ever change.  
When will my obsession
finally evaporate. 
How can I still cling
so desperate
an unobtainable thing
a heart that does not care. 
 To loathe my mind and despise
my heart for
the foolish act of loving
someone more
than could ever be real. 
 To sleep
and never dream.
If only, no more.