back to static

“We wouldn’t be talking regularly if I didn’t find you interesting”                          

“so once the novelty wears off you won’t?” 

          The back of my throat tightens. I contemplate walking out into the hazy humidity of the night to get a strawberry milkshake just for a semblance of what summer is meant to be. My days are a dim imitation of the nights I spend alone, mental process and external stimuli experienced with no real distinction, all running together without the weight of presence to seam them apart just as my grip on waking reality goes lax succumbing to the static quality of dreamtime. I know no other locus of awareness than that of the glass tower of my own prism of perception. My eyes sting in my moments of lucidity when I think about him, a reminder of being amidst the summer of youth without knowing what it is to truly feel the presence of another. I have gone my whole life a phantom, unable to find tangible purchase within perceptible reality, always an impression but never fully there. Instead I’m left on summer nights in ponderment of what it is exactly that makes me impossible to remember beyond fleeting bursts of novel interest before everything goes to static.