You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


what I think about when I watch you read

I LOOK AT YOU the way I would look at a still image trapped between a reality and a dream, and I realize that’s exactly where we are; floating somewhere, lost in that rhythmic beats of thought, into the edge of consciousness. You read on, fingers flipping a page, slipping in and out of this moment; I am alone at one but with you at the next. And so I look for something to anchor myself from the intermittent sudden shift, finding it at the corner of your lips where a hint of a smile lies, so faint, subtle that maybe I’m just imagining it. It’s more like an anticipation of it as you follow the chain reaction that leads to an actual full-blown smile.

Then suddenly, there it is, and your eyes brim with discovery, exhiliration, of finding something that resonates. I can almost hear it too. Your lips part and I hang on the moment, waiting for the connection, to catch the sounds that would fall out of your mouth, of words that make you so happy.

But you just read on. And I still hold my breath, still looking, still waiting for words - birds in flight that never land.

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