There is a person, somewhere, because there has to be. You
listen to the car horns blaring outside and dream in numbers
and you lose yourself in the expelling wheeze
of the subway doors, caught up in the mindless throbbing
weight of people. You know the frustration
of these pristine walls
, the way that, no matter how hard you try, a place will never feel yours
, nothing will ever belong to you
. The things that you think you own are actually heavy
on you, heavy
I have this fantasy that I can pick up the phone and dial a number without knowing it, and the person who belongs to that number will pick it up right before it rings, having known that I would dial just as I knew you would answer. I will say "it's time," and you will nod, and I will know, though there will be no sound.
And I'll sneak out of my apartment (over the sleeping boy, around the needy cat, past the doorman like a ghost) and get on the subway, empty at 5 am, and ride it until I know what stop is mine. I'll get off the train, just as you get off the train on the opposite platform (though this is dreamspace and nothing matters, we are no longer in New York, it is time without mind) and we'll get on a bus, or a car, or a train together, with nothing at all (no satchels of clothing, no notebooks, no pencils, only bodies and minds and things that exist between them) and we'll move from city to city, charming our way onto trains, talking our way into meals, and we'll learn and create and never record, it'll be life without the weight of communication, life like a secret like things said in passing and forgotten, and all the more important for being forgotten.
Every city we'll be new people, with new names, new histories, and new pasts. It won't matter, because I'll never know your true name and you'll never know mine. We'll love each other furiously, with no concern for the past and no concern for the future, and words and thoughts will burn away and we'll just be fantastically naked and weightless and nothing will hurt.