but the dream never stops believing

I let a week go before I emailed my fantasy boy back. He hasn't emailed back yet. I keep wondering when his alligence will become situational... when he will become as fucking distant as I am trying to be. Distance is safe, afterall. NY is distance. Strangers are distance. Silent hopes are distance. I'm trying not to show how much I adore him. How much I think we are fucking perfect for each other. My adoration instead comes in waves of confusing dreams and gapeing sadness. For in my mind, he is mine and I am his. I imagine telling him all the things I am, what I live for and hope for and how much I love him.

I pour this vacancy into the open air. And what comes back to me is the aching for him. Only aching for that special person. And what comes back from the universe is all the failure I have accomplished. It's fucking poison. And all I see brings a lump to my throat. I know he's a mirage, but for the briefity of words, I am lost in it and indulge my lonliest of urges.

I want that void to be filled. It's time to find out what is beneath the dream and above the archetype. To be with him is just an impossiblity. Or is it? That is the question -- but the dream never stops believing. And when I wake alone, waking in sadness, the light is truth and what happened in the darkness drifts back into my subconsious and remains to haunt.

When I lay me down to sleep, I imagine being held, by a large, loving body, curled beside me. In the warmth and exhaustion I almost fool myself.

But I never forget. And I always dream. and there is something so stabbing about summertime, about him, about emails and about my own ideas.