Verité (Finale)

The conversations we have in my dreams, they feel like a benediction. You are the phantom torso that I grow to love, and part of the insufferable silence that vindicates an anguished romance that once was/could be and (feels like what) will be: the power in my hands that comes from your small infinitesimal glances, through imaginary corridors filled with whispers and oh, the torment of my soul - perhaps my mishaps mistook me as more than a mistress of my misfortunes, and yet

here we hardly see through one another, how do I begin to describe something from some inane corner of a scarce and weary mind, and perhaps not even real? It is easy to recite the great works and be foolishly romanticized, but a deafening thud is forthcoming should I know that you are indifferent, and is that not what I fear? That you should not care about my adoration, albeit childish, is like drowning in the dark depths of the Black Sea and for that, all my wounds shall never heal. And in being faint-hearted and weak, are my vainglory attempts at belying dignity and pride- I shall only hope you will not see a sham in my fortitude. Sometimes I implore in telepathic apathy that you will one day understand what I cannot even begin to tell you, shamelessly and recklessly- and for that I am often dismayed, although not entirely unpredictable. Once, we spoke in the codes of dream; it is a shame that life does not imitate wonders. A counterfeit assumes your identity but I understand the truth, I screamed over insanity and realize that this is not you, but the truth is never where I want it to be.