I don't mean I have clairvoyant dreams, but in that veiled cusp before my body collides with oblivion, I understand you far better than I ever would in the blindness of day. If you managed to extract pearled words from my mouth, I swear I'd soothsay all your worth.
In the long evenings, your shadow stretches long before you, beckoning to follow. It's free from its imprisonment, binding you to its whim and direction.
Now, the time you're least responsible for your actions is when you have the most freedom. Now, this time is when you have the attention to give to the collapse of constantly replenishing breath, to the endless tattoo of feet rhythm -- when you're not responsible for dictating your body to your will.
This is the time when the hallowed outlines of people have a golden glow as if you can see their souls through a temporal lens. When you touch someone on the arm, your outlines converge. Connecting. An outline of honey warmth in the trace of your fingertip, making even the ordinary otherworldly as if to remind us of the glory inherent in the smallest grain if we could only recognize it. This is a gift for you: the immortality that is only possible not because of what lies within, but because you are the one to see it.
Here is when I see the truth of my worth to you, if that joining of souls is possible as intented outlines merge.
When your shadow transcends day to night, step softly so you don't disturb the dust of our feelings. If I could, I'd ask for a few more years merely to dwell in your memory. Faded to a gentle hush you'd yearn to touch, a fabric that disintegrates if handled carelessly. Could you pay that close attention to me? I could be so much more if I meant something.
But my somnolent wisdom doesn't reveal your faults or how you've damned me with your unwitting dismissal. That isn't the truth this soft focus allows. There are words you try to show but fail to, these words you change the memory of when you try to describe them. These words are caught in the snare of my sandman. This is a gift for me: the words you sent without any hope of revocation, reciprocation, or return.
Some things are only seen from afar and some only from a parenthetical sleep. Would that I could understand what I do with eyes wide shut, or be so affected at seeing that softening of expression as an outsider. Would that life were an endless dying day where we could follow shadows into anonymity.
This sort of truth can only be found in the golden motes of fleeting life. The sort of truth that's a forgotten memory more important than you can remember. This sort of truth is lost as soon as I open my eyes.