I. Knowing you,
it's like a dream.
I'm not referring to perfection or
personal desire,
because both are insufficient excuses
for lack of motivation, lack of action.
No, I'm talking about the way in which you remind me of the dreams I scramble to write down when I wake up from them.
The ones I'm able to put into complete sentences,
not that they'd make any sense.
Usually it's just words and images separated by hyphens, commas, space--
but not this time.
It still doesn't make sense.
This whole story, it's incomprehensible, it's between a nightmare and a daydream. The fuzzy edges, the tilt-shift,
the vibrant colors that I can't remember, the way in which we never touch each other.
Can you recall ever running your fingers over,
embracing,
biting, scratching,
feeling a tangible object within a dream?
Maybe it's a personal experience.
But this disconnection, this feeling like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, it's too outlandish, too surreal.
There's too much periphrasis.
I'm not an interface.
II. There's a windowpane, freshly scrubbed--
Through it I can see everything, comprehend
everything. the smallest details proffered in high contrast and high saturation.
But I reach out and my fingers bump and bend awkwardly as they come into contact with it, minimally smudging it.
Sorry about that.
When I walk into the room you look at me with such bewilderment,
as if I've come back from the dead,
but you're too scared to touch me--
I'm a ghost, I'm a mirage, a phantasm,
I'm a stone sculpture erected in memory
of who I used to be.
Who did I used to be?
I've been resurrected,
but do you want me revitalized?
It concerns me that I need verification,
but even more that I'm concerned
with the fact that I can't get it, it's too hard to read, it's in another language, or it's too blurry.
I told you this doesn't make any sense.
"You think about death a lot"--
I'm sorry about that too.
I've been trying to be more unapologetic.
I don't quite think it's working.
III. So, about this:
I'm not quite sure of the direction
it needs to go in;
it would benefit from a clean dissection--
we should talk about this.
And we have.
But nothing seems to work;
I don't know how to get through to you,
I don't know how to break the glass.
What would I tell you? I don't know.
I've already told you so much,
and you me.
Why did you tell me all of that?
These ulterior motives in an ulterior dimension, they differ so profusely from the world where I write dreams down; the real one.
You inquired once about the differences between who I was in voice and in action.
I didn't have a good answer,
but I wanted to ask the same of you.
Stop looking at me like that,
you know what I'm talking about.
Say something. Please.
It doesn't have to be like this,
I could wake up from this dream and everything could be almost the same,
if you'd agree to it.
(it's a magnified, intensified retelling, written from another perspective)
