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Here we sit,
she and I,
looking across the table
at our lives.
We have walked these paths
and steered these streets
on the way to this moment,
this space amongst the stars.
She’s told me
of her machinations
of a different view
and I shared
my love for you.
Yet here we sit pretending
it’s all not real,
that we can eat dinner
and sip margaritas
like nothing has transpired,
as if I don’t know
her secrets,
as if she doesn’t know
How can I pretend like this?
Am I more
of an actress
than I knew?
Is this what people do
before they decide
what to do?
Do we all live
these tangled lives
and build fake faces
to hide the timid truth
inside our smiles?
How can she smile
and talk of love
and futures
which she knows
are doomed even as they
plummet from her parted lips?
It’s because
it’s fantasy,
pure and shattered.
You are my imagination,
a created concept
designed to be
who I need you to be.
Even though we love
and yearn
and ache,
what would be our reality?
Is this quiet notion
what keeps me
at this table,
staring with hidden eyes
and tempted thoughts
of running?
I’m too afraid
to say goodbye
because this might be
the best there is.
I know that’s why
she sits here,
silent conversations
passing between our eyes.
Maybe you are such the dream
that flipping you into reality
would be too real,
too unexpected,
too scary.
I wish I knew the answers
but I fear
they lie in your heart
and are so locked up
that no one could break through.
And is that what I want?
More silence and running?

Who am I kidding?
You are my light
and my stars
and my sunrises
and flowers in the spring
and ocean tides
and jars of seashells.
How can I sit
at this table
when you are my air?

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