Nine years later

writing, to a man that doesn't exist
he is perfect (perfection is a myth)
telling him of how
I have searched for him
through the centuries
that live in my head
trekking through debris
caught up in my cerebral cortex

he calls to silence,

to the place I linger, waiting  
dusk, brushing my eyelids
soft as angel whispers

he grips the stars

pulling me closer to the sky
I don't know,  if I'm still breathing
if I'm something else, in this moment

matter, of a different kind

I don't think I end  

he never stops guiding me
through layers of magnificence
through the unknown

his eyes are like atoms, breaking apart
that energy leaving him, pours into me

I'm savant
I am everything
see everything

when sunrise finds me tangled up
in sheets
that smell of fresh watermelon
I lose him
the man that doesn't exist