Imagination

Imagination

You are too real.

You are my imagination.

I see the image of feelings that are reserved for reality, but never experienced. This can't be real, yet is all too real. The essence of classical beauty, divine to eyes, manifests itself in your aura. I can no longer see. In fact, I have never seen before. The very thought of what you represent is only displayed in what I perceive could be possible. Even the repugnance of rejection casts an enticing allure. I can no longer wait. In fact, time stands still. Even as I turn to reject my very real thoughts, my imagination, the scent of pungent sinsemilla intertwined with soft wisps of cedar and ecstasy remind me of your representation. I inhale. You are too real. You are my imagination. I would speak if you could hear; my voice could never travel far or fast enough to influence your mind before the concepts were not worthy of your witness, so I withhold. You remain silent, non- intrigued by lack of stimulation. I demand you, leave my mind, yet, I do not desire to rebuke your reality. I listen to reason. I can fathom the harmony of your song to be similar to lullabies of distant sirens, beckoning shipwrecked sailors to embrace their own fate and drift castaway into the abyss of the sea's horizon. I never heard silence sound so sweet. I sing its sacrament. You are my muse. The reach for your vision fails only to recognize that the realm is beyond my span. Rules defile me. To touch the imaginary would birth existence. You are too real. You are my imagination. The touch of silken cashmere togas, threaded with strands of heaven would be unworthy to clothe the goddess of my imagination. You stand, raw, naked, unabashed in truth. I feel you within my soul, yet you don't exist. You fulfill my appetite, yet I have never tasted.

You are too real.

You are my imagination.