One Poem by Ballerina With Fins

As I write, I notice only the details. And the details
amount to only this: the rawness of tanned skin,
the murkiness of new sweat, and
voices cryingly-whispering, shrill and dissonant.

Melodies, taking flight, in the whimsical quality of this
situation, which isn't really a situation but a dream. It
all boils down to those- they were so sharp in my
trance-like state of mind, and now they are fading.

Mountains are erecting in between us,
invisible mountains filtering out reality.

The distance between us is widening,
in harsh hope of separation.
But this disarity is pleasant, lovely almost, like a warm thought.
I am on a journey to a place where no one but I can reach.
This place is like a transparent bubble, from which I can gaze
at you as from a television screen, up front and far away.

Gaze at you, wide-eyed, light-headed;
tension building up at an increasing rate.
You may be here, in this same place,
but Wonderland is miles away, on dreams.

And the distance between us is widening,
but our worlds are not closing to each other.
Sing me a song of Perhaps; for they
are but invisible mountains.