I think that’s what you did.
You pulled back the curtain and I saw the next layer
maybe the universe beyond that.
Was it you or I, believing
that I could draw the drape,
shut my eyes
and not feel my hearts wanderlust?
Such is a futile exercise
I have engaged like an occupation.
At first I was glad for the job.
Something to do. If there is a doing thing
then there is an undoing possible,
an erasure of the new errand
my soul convulses with.
I was fascinated.
You were delightful
and I sometimes wonder if I shall wake
knowing it the concoction of a dream.
But my dreams die quickly in the morning light
and this has been a slow death,
returning with the lunar consistency
of the living dead.
I am the watch tower
that waits within the definition of insanity
and when the immortal appears
I feel sane.
