you flutter in and out of existence
unpredictably.
but rather predictably,
you're on my right when standing
and on my left where we lie parallel.
where others have trouble forgetting
the one they love,
(you've probably figured but)
my dear, i have to confess,
i have trouble remembering you.
i'm sorry.
you never speak
nor do anything.
you're stoical.
sometimes i wish,
you'd tug my sleeve
and revile me for
hardly remembering you.
or hit me;
any physical sensation
would be welcoming.
just, something.
anything.
but no, you don't.
you seem to not have any qualms.
you don't even seem to have
anything to express.
to be with you
is akin to:
silence.
solitude.
nonexistence.
yet ironically,
you are the only one
dispelling these perennial feelings.
feelings are products of our cognition.
my dear,
nameless,
faceless,
i wonder if you are
a seperate existence
or
one in the same.