Illusion, I see you everywhere, some times, some places. On the roof of that building, walking towards me, dressed in white. And I am in white too. It feels like real but sounds like Sarah McLachlan CD covers. You stood, hands in pockets, smiling up at me while I pushed and pulled the arms of the elliptical machine. You perch yourself on top of my black bookshelf and watch me at night. It’s really an unsafe place to perch.
You were wearing that backpack you always wore, strutting around Shaw/Howard with a benign look of calm and familiarity. Once, you were being pulled into the sky, purple and navy and speckled with silver lights. It was God who was pulling you too. I liked that illusion best. Sometimes I see you nowhere and I feel you never. Sometimes, sometimes the sting feels better than the nothing.
Dimensions, there are so many ways to see this now. The beginning of so many two’s; the beginning of my one. Untimely and tragic and hard and must be strong and in a better place now and quick and painless, they said. I used to see life in metaphors and allegories; hidden meaning in everything. You are the audience to which I write, whenever I write, when I speak unintentionally. You are the critic of my prose, my acts, my life.
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