I’d shave ten years off my existence to see recurring dreams of holding your hand after midnight.
The memory is too close to clasp but too hot to touch.
It’s me I can’t bear to see.
In the mirror, doubt doubles down its reflection — such a worthless connection.
The silence of stillness in blindness is violence.
But what’s to see?
Only what’s become of you and me.
Now that I’d like to see.
(© 2022 AC)