The details of someone else's life close to yours. You see them as you see memory, the way you look back at love instead of seeing it here, now. Why is it that I can not be here in the present? My mind refuses to acknowledge that time is not just something that has passed, but that is also something that is passing before us every moment. I can not be with her because I can not be with her now. I miss her and yet she is still here.
In dreams we venture forth into the space between us, like astronauts rehearsing poems to recite to the stars once they are closer to their light. Sleep isolates our hearts, and when we wake we walk back towards the previous night, trying to retain what we forgot.
And already my heart insists on speaking in past tense. Even the future has happened before, the touch of deja-vu on quiet lips, trembling promises unkept and unspoken. Words are outlined in invisible, embroidered thread, masking meaning in layers of unseen silk. Reality underdeveloped under our distorted perceptive lens, the corners of objects lost into the next, rounded pixels of color overcrowding the screen. To speak is to breath in silent sighs, to not disturb the frequency of air, itself sleeping amidst sleepless thoughts, standing between all the things we can not see.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
keep writing mister.
Post a Comment