looking at the skies I seem to see a million eyes- which ones are yours?

May 8, 2011

Dreams about you. It doesn’t bode well, this- sudden brightness, your face in my eyes. Not your face. Just the weariness of knowing sleep comes with its own incipient fears.

Doesn’t it always? I am dear to you and you are dear to me. There. Perhaps that is all, counted out onto the floor like a hand curled up, all the fingers broken, one by one. How much is dreaming and how much is what I know? I know nothing. I don’t know you.

How much can anyone know, truly? And now I’m waiting, and it seems ridiculous, to wait when I could speak. Silence when I could- could reach out. How much is trust? How much is my own fear, that you don’t want me?

It comes at last, always this. Always. It happened before, with another quiet voice that closed itself on me, lived its own life. We have our own lives, my friends. Somehow they never last, across seas. I shouldn’t expect them to, and yet I live in hope that belonging somehow can cover over more than the here and now. Can be forever. It doesn’t work that way. Nothing does.

My eyes are weary and my head is full of singing.

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