Let’s talk about ideas, or imitations, or anything near truth. Something transcendental or something in between yearning and acquisition, something between a prayer and divine intervention.

Let’s talk about blurry dreams, concrete intentions, or reluctant murmurs of faith or steamy, slippery moans of sex. Something in between staring blankly at night and looking at an actual canvass of flesh. Something like kissing the air, or slapping the stars from afar. Something like smothering the nearest skin, or praying again, to a God, to a nearby heaven, to a dwindling faith.

Let’s talk about how you walk, how you talk, how you open your mouth, and how the words that come out of it flow in a thick, milky melody. Melodies of a dreary evening, or how the window filters out the pale streetlight nearby. Let’s talk about how you look like in the dark, when you’re not really there. When I try to picture you in that blank, starry landscape of concrete and mating fireflies.

And then let’s talk about me. How I dream. How I breathe. How I believe in a God, and her power, and her playfulness. How she weaves this world into a crazy, lunatic outburst of love, caffeine and empty barren nights. Let’s talk about gentle wind swishes at two in the morning. Let’s talk about smoke etched on the fog. Or stars melting beneath ugly, grey clouds.

Something like the distance between where you sleep, and where I think of you. Something like the tequila spilled on swirls of lemon juice. Or how the world tumbles away in a chaotic kaleidoscope of desire, desperation and the promise of another day.

Let’s talk about the things we cannot put into words. Let’s talk about the beauty in the hidden, or the scent of obscurity. Let’s talk about me looking at you from afar. Let’s talk about realities that could never be.

Let’s talk about life. About love. About flickering lights in a lonely evening. About why I’m awake. And why I am away.

And then let’s talk about the things we will never say.