sound of your anklets.
and I slip to sleep
as if it's a dream.
you exist between my
dreams and delusions.
a fantasy if I close
my eyes and a daydream
when I open.
you arrive without arrival,
leave without leaving,
linger like a question
I don’t want answered.
in that thin space
between sense and
surrender,
you feel almost real-
enough to touch,
never enough to hold.
and I keep returning there,
half-aware, half-lost-
hoping the sound of
your anklets doesn’t
fade into silence.
But it does.
but it does and I go on
chasing your shadows
and silhouettes.
sometimes even an
outline seems enough.
but can a mirage ever
be anything beyond
disappointment?
well, my fancy with a
palette disagrees.
believe me,
filling colours to the
outlines of a person
who doesn't exist,
Uhh! It's a habit beyond
a certain repairing.