I still dream about you
more meeting of eyes and words exchanging
Someplace where we still say each other’s names
Like this broken record of nonsensical imaginations
Things too good to be of any truth, they aren’t
and yet, I do, still, dream about all—of it
about all of you, yet a phantom fantasy
who in the alter-world feel more real than what isn’t
Such a world that feels so vivid
built up by more truths than falsities
All the waking emotions had been reflected
All of mine, that is, I may have no idea of yours to begin with
Might you have this same sort of struggling too?
Or is Sisyphus ever alone?
Even in thoughts, even in fantasies,
even in endless glimpses of an idealised reality