And Yet, I Wanted You Still

Last night I dreamt you were standing,

just out of reach.

Which was not so different from real life.

Every time I put my hands out to touch you,

to know you were real and true,

I couldn’t quite feel you.

No matter how far I reached,

you were beyond my fingertips,

and always beyond my heart.

And the more I tried

the more my mind reminded me of the most distant of words you’d spoken to me

or rather,

at me

and yet, 

I wanted you still.

I wanted your eyes to look in my direction with some semblance of interest or care.

I wanted your heart to find hope and pleasure in sharing with mine.

And I was afraid to ask any of those questions I most wanted answers to

for the thought of being met with silence

or one-word answers,

again,

tore a little of my heart each time.

Small rips and tears at the edges to begin.

Rips and tears I would retreat and repair in silence,

just enough

that I could come back to you.

Each time with barely dried blood, haphazard stitches and half healed sores,

that I kept out of sight

as I went about trying to mend yours.

Later the rips and tears grew to gaping wounds,

and they stayed.

They stayed, no matter how much glue and tape I used,

because they were not mine to heal.

I knew the answers to those questions,

I’d known them all along.

And as your transient dream form faded with the beginnings of morning light,

I fought to hold on,

to the parts of you I’d never truly held.

Which was not so different to real life.