Occasionally I will pantomime my dreams, accidentally,
into a mistaken reality wherein I am a dreamer
but more than that I am me, undeniably so. My hands are
spurned, driven mad, up and down as they burn scribbled
charades into the air and then suspend them; as if
my actions alone brought them to life. Seconds pass
and they live half-lives with no voice, rather my breathing beats
air into their lack of physical being and provides them with heart.
Heart enough for millions from one barely enough for me and it
will forever beat, until my real charade is given voice by another.
That wave, undertow envelops,
and through pushing pulls me beneath.
I gasp, choking on salty nothings
fighting fictitious waves to no avail,
for on your tongue an unsaid narrative hangs.
Dying, wrapped at the throat while
trying to sink me, deeper yet
and I succumb, alone, to unrelenting you as
I find myself stuck somewhere
How can I know if I
have moved on,
actually separated my past
with my present while
obstructing you from my future?
Is the answer in my words,
visible in how I talk to my friends or family?
Who might interpret my
words as an act to veil my true feelings,
but don’t my actions define my thoughts
or is it the reverse,
in which my thoughts tell me how to
act, speak, feel?
So how can I know if I am really
How can I define my infinite actions,
speculate over how I articulate,
and muse over my thoughts
I am reflecting on you, us, me.