Her Name Was Naomi

I want space. I want blackness, darkness, quiet, a vacuum. To be suspended, not even in air but in nothingness. To remember to breathe in deep enough that you can see your lungs rise. You can find auspicious dreams in mundane things; collections of bottle caps, toy sailboats, books weathered by time. I just don't understand what it is that I am supposed to be waiting for, or hoping for. I don't even desire to think about anything but the future anymore, and a destiny of living a life defined by unknowns is a sad one. And words don't even make sense. You just write them, speak them, sing them, and trip over them. But who are you getting through to? It just feels like you could scream and throw your fists to the wall and you'd just wake up tied to your bed, sweating: it's all just a dream. You're living a thousand lives at once, you're throwing your limbs into pools of dark water and you don't even care if they get swallowed up. What is it to be so jaded that you don't even think, every moment is connected by impulses. And impulse by impulse you get farther away from your point of origin. what is it to be infinite? to have no clear beginning or end? Is it better to have faith or hope? Faith is defined by a thankfulness for every day you that shows you mercy, while hope is a state of blind expectation. What is it that makes more sense?

The night is the only time I dare think of your face, because you and I can only exist in a dimension separated by every thing else we are. I can't feel you when I'm facing reality head on, because you are not reality. I can't feel you when I'm awake, because I can tell the difference between the haze of constant dreams and the line that crosses into actuality. I feel you when I see the moon, and hear quiet breathing in the night, and am delirious enough to touch my cheeks and feel the wetness you left there. It might not be real at all, but that's okay. In the night it is okay to feel imaginary things. It's okay to breathe in the intoxication of after-hours visions. You aren't hurting anyone, you're not even hurting yourself, because when you wake up in the morning you can't remember. You can't remember sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, hugging your knees, and letting everything that you push away in the daylight to come at you full force. Just feel it, take it in, feel it touch your skin, and know that you are alive. You are alive for a reason, because someone needed you. You are alive with every breath you take, and all the discourse you choke down with tasteless water.

You sit on the granite counter top, it's cold and it feels right. You slide to press your face against an untouched square of stone, colder still, and let your fingers tap ghostly melodies near your ears. You breathe because you are alone, no one is watching, and it's okay to fall apart in the twilight hour. No one has to know the secrets you share with yourself. When the Sun comes up, you smile while your back is turned to the rest, and remember those silent moments. Moments where you felt your heart beat, and you felt your soul speak, and you know. You know