Saturday, December 11, 2010
I think it would be fantastic
if I had any idea who you were.
I know very well the things you are
not. I have only love for the area
you define. Sometimes,
I know you are dancing by the vibration
in the air outside my house.
But when I am sitting across the table
from you, when you are in my
face, I cannot see you at all. I, with
volumes of words like lovers in my
pocket, cannot say even one
on the subject of your truth.
We are like two mirrors propped opposite
each other on a stage. Refractive recursive
images. I see you looking for me. You see
me looking for you. Like an endless
echo of hello without the actual greeting. Or,
Perhaps it is backwards. Not mirrors
but lenses, and these forms in
the kitchen's morning light are merely
projected, flat and unknowable. You and I
are somewhere laughing upside down,
feet running across ceilings
of stars, our other truer selves
galaxies away and completely seen.