be mine

speaking as someone who wants most vibrantly and achingly, at all times, to be living in someone's pocket (anyone's, really, i want to be wanted that close and yet not quite so intimately, don't we all, find me in your pocket covered in lycra and denim with only my shape to be seen, i am safe, i am protected, i am in your every step)

i don't know that i feel i'll ever truly enter your world, much less live in it. i feel swept by cosmic fingers, the kind that non-denominational readings are written about, and i feel that a language of limited intelligibility is being transmitted at me through waves i am too small or blunt to read.

when you speak, i am rapt to attention. when you speak, it is but the passing of another day. when you speak, we align along a singularity without effort.

you are not bound to me without effort. i have had to be fit and formed, into your pocket. i certainly hope you don't despair of the dent in your thigh.

we become associated, one to one, without sound. without the jingling of keys, the little aborted noises in an awkward good morning or a bitter good night.

there's a hand on my heart that i have never seen. the weight of your walk is information i have never considered. it's irrelevant. in my pocket, you are weightless.

and any love you may hold for me is yet another invisible wavelength. the space i occupy in your mind cannot be seen by man nor beast.

i am no more than an idea, to you. i could be anything. miserable, terrible, blithely benign.

i could be the key to your entire existence and not know it. more than that: i will not, cannot know it.

it's not that your physical presence is required. it's that i fail to see, as you wish to shake me by your shoulders--

let's go on a drive.

there's a seat for you, and a seat for me.

right now i cannot breathe. you are too far away.