He told me to take his hand.
Said someday I’d understand,
the person I thought I knew,
existed only in my mind.
Cautiously, I took it.
My conscience screaming inside my head,
its mouth as big as the heart
beating within my chest.
Its voice was powerless against my need
for a love that I couldn’t find within me.
And so, I surrendered my hand, my heart,
and every tangible part of my body.
For the first time in
twenty five long years
I felt completely, absolutely,
positively at ease.
He told me stories.
Stories about death, love, and the outdoors.
I listened intently,
my heart and my arms outstretched.
As he spoke and stroked my
thigh with his fingertips,
I marked each chapter,
with soft kisses and pursed lips.
And later, with my eyes closed,
and my guard long gone,
his words turned into dreams
I hoped to someday see.
That night, when the world called out for me,
pounding on my door with its
the storyteller sold me one last dream.
His world began and ended with me.
I bought it. Yes, I believed.
And since that day, my sanity,
I haven’t seen.