Untitled (2)

Untitled 2

He wants to taste the river,
wants to ride the storm
and I tell him he won’t get anywhere
thinking the way that he does.

He’s a dreamer, hates reality,
despises anything he can touch,
the lines on a palm, the wrinkles
of a knuckle, the smooth flesh
of a hand, he despises it all

and maybe that’s why we
never hold hands, meet face
to face. We talk through silence
sometimes on misty days and
we never speak.

He says that silence is golden and speaks
more truth than words could ever do,
but I would rather hear his voice
than the whistle of the wind through trees
and through hair.

I would rather hear what he really means
than trying to decipher every blink
of his eye, movement of his furrows
up and down until they no longer exist
as what they once were and say things 
that I wish I could understand.

I’m not a dreamer like him.
I long for the warmth of palms
against palms. I long for that
human connection, something
to lock one person to another.
I want to get hooked on something
that could be my only remedy,
only cure to whatever this illness is.