Metaphors.
You turn liquid like a shade of ocean, piece of the truth, shining in my folded hands as I kneel and pray with fragmented gods, church ruins. This is a sunny day in your mind, your six points of heart closer to my bare back as I kneel further down, as many miles as you like to...
I wish to tell you, but every time I turn around, thinking to catch your glass face shattering through my eyes, you are gone. You were never there. I cannot know if you are real. You turn liquid, wet dust sticking to my memory of you. What is ever real? I question all existence, but wish to keep you.
Are we selfish for longing so terribly when against walls of our own in lonely homes, lonely letters written to nowhere, drawings drawn to replace the words not meant read aloud, and the morbid staking of our own nothing in the lands of others?
Can you blame me for remembering what you'd have said today if you were here?
I'm supposed to be calling you. Especially, should this happen. You would know me to fidget, sadden, feel disturbed in my attachment to you, trying to rid myself furiously of it out of fear it will contaminate me. Fill me with silly little ideas of happiness. You know a little too much already, and I hardly spoke.
We do not wish to save another.
Seeing something strange on the water's surface, an edge in me, like a crossing of paths unto one. There is order in this chaos, contradiction in all I am. Strange, burrowing functions of making up excuses so you can't love me. But nothing I will do will reach you in time. You were the hesitant, the reluctant, but not for the same reasons as I'd make up. I can feel how diligently you work while I address you, how intuitively you apologize if you overstep.
There are things you do; I've only seen them from afar. And I'm the naive puzzle bit. I'll trust.
You are gone, still here.