If it could begin again, I would find your fingers on the keys. I would feel the pen and the paper, the ease of the ink, the resistance of the writing. I would listen to the sound each letter made, the halting scrape of punctuation. I would rest my hands over yours as you wrote, feel the reasons left unsaid in your every bone and tendon. These things I would do, if my imagination lived closer to the truth.
I always want it to be night, or nearing. I always want the sound and smell of rain. There is always time in these dreamings, time that you would waste with me. I could find my voice, I could feel my way back into sentience. You would only know me well enough, not too well as history had to have it. I would be someone close to this, but not this. It is the only way for the fantasy to work.
Instead it was the freeway, then the dozen chores. It was the midnight trap of feelings and the morning glare of too much work yet undone. I lost the words that I would leave here. I lost the reason I can not abide reasons at all. Cat fights. Rat traps. The dull litany of this poem that won't have me, and all the poetry I can not escape.