I wait for you, knowing you'll never come (should this stop the waiting?)

You come in dreams. Meet me and kiss me gently, tell me things without

telling me things. These days all I want to remember is that I am

loved. That the soft flesh of my body has been held in another's hands, reverent,

that I have been seen when I was not looking, that I am not always picking up the slack

trailing behind like a rope, manufacturing missed glances, feeling myself not being

caught (of course this is charade in itself, I only know what I know, and so choose

to see the world that way). I reach out, all tentacles, like strands dropped in the water,

becoming alive. Searching for anything, connection, a spark, a touch, a moment, the sound 

of someone saying: I love you, a buzz, the feeling that I am glowing, emitting light,

a feeling that I exist everywhere and nowhere, a letting go of reality for just a split second.

I start to understand there is no life I should be living. To release the grip on right answers

confusing and refusing and diluting and enduing and imbuing and pursuing.

To allow wrong things. To be impulsive. To retreat, and care, and clean, and caress, and love,

and grow a little fire of tenderness. 

All these opposites exist at once and overlap like waves in the sea, 

and I lay beneath them and hope they wash over me.