You barely give me time to
speak your name, much less the thoughts I have on our
conversation when you walk away from the table. I can't quite grasp a
slippery thing like yourself...one moment you want me to share with you all my hidden
visions and the next you silence me so you can listen to the news on
the Spanish television channel.
You drew me in with your indefinite charms and you keep me enslaved with promises of revelations...but they never came. And I know they won't, but it doesn't deaden the expectation. It's pure, like this relationship that we share (or, more acturately, that we are helpless to avoid).
Even the air around you seems to question your very existence and I wouldn't be shocked if you suddenly disappeared in a cloud of scented vapor. You make it so I don't have to question your actions or your thoughts...everything is there, you say.
You despise common and vulgar things...to explain something is to kill its individual mystique. We're all just looking for a way to describe what we see, you say, and sometimes we shouldn't try so hard.
So you let me fall into unconsolable incomphrehensible
and you don't dare to tread upon the doormat of my mind. You wonder what you've created with your mind-bending and
mind-freeing words and I can see you never really understood what you were.