I hear it in the choices
of the words they make: their voices
meet, but only the voices meet ―
an appearance of conversation, where no soulmateship
is intended in the slightest, produces plastic flowers
of itself, approximate to the real thing, but souring
subtly in the lack of sweet scent-smell.
hole-hearted ― starts to feel like this,
a kiss no deeper than the four lips of the kiss,
an imitation of intimacy that, technically,
is just about all friendshipwreck. Just because
you can count all your feathers
doesn’t mean you can fly . . .
They call it a dream
because you can’t hold on
to any of it, and although
you are “there”, widely awake,
how much can you make it
your own? Very little.
Life escapes you, at once,
in every instant, unless,
you allow it to touch you in all your force —