Snails

I had a dream that you said nice things.

I had a dream that this was exactly what it isn't.

And when I opened my eyes to see the vast distance between where I was and where you were, I collected my head from its lofty seat.  I placed it on my shoulders with needle and thread and continued to tread lightly, silently.  Because although stars rest upon thrones, they fall to the earth on a collision course.

I pretend that all you write is only to me.

I pretend that thoughts of me set camp in your mind.

If we're honest, it once was true.  They way you looked at me and the way I looked away drove you mad.  At least, I think that's what you said.  Those words could have belonged to someone else the way that the bird doesn't belong to the sky, but rather the tree.

So now I imagine we're gasping.

Now I imagine we're screaming.

Every bit of you is not every bit of my ideal.  But there are parts that I like, parts I like a whole lot.  So when those parts that are refused by me surface and voice and make themselves known, I hideout for a few days, writing things to you.  I write that I'm finished and that we need closure and that it isn't actually over.  I'm the not-well-oiled machine.

And I'm looking for spare parts.