you would habitually withhold, and i would open myself
on a dream--two females constantly pervade. chameleons in their identities. they oscillate. they enter and exeunt. they switch. my sight moves from face to face and then back again, and it's like a whirling dervish of visions round a circular table. these two femme fatales, undeniably anna and claire. the spirits of them. ponderance and wind. sometimes wind would be on top of me, me in her, in a rhythmic tide. and sometimes ponderance would just be sitting nearby, absorbing and analyzing and transmuting whatever i said, whatever i gestured. and they had your eyes. i don't know how because they were different, each unique sets of ocular marbles and idiosyncratic corners, each with their own method of blinking. and yet they had your eyes. those omnipotent and secretive eyes, panoptic in their affect. you spoke of panoramas once, and pancaked steak. you who i had unilaterally decided to cut out of my life for the last twenty-nine hours out of spite and hatred and self-preservation. not even the drunk call. not even the visit to your writings. hammered and blitzed out of my mind, and not caring, wanting to negate you, negate what history there was. to let dissolve, hiss, and fizzle into echoing silence, into eternal ellipses... at the round table, for a brief second, there was also a male figure. somehow i could see the smooth ridge of his pectorals, and the shadowed half of an autobot tattooed near where the crescent is/isn't. and he is the epitome of male hardness. resting lazily on the back of his chair, the enormity of his chest heaving slowly. ponderance never spoke. well, no one spoke in the dream. but ponderance's silence was profound, somehow ancient. as if i could feel its signifyingness along the landscape that is my skin. like silence depicted in a silent film. like our sublime sandbars of wordlessness. truly, oases. and she would at times sit there, maybe atop of her feet, and be analytical by virtue of her mere being, intrigue written in the confluence of her neck and corners of her mouth. and then there was wind, laughing and running and galloping freely. claire on her horse. forever entering new sectors of air because of her speed and directionlessness. i inhale now and i can smell her all too late absence, as if abstractitude reified into fragrance, and then crossed-out. like the smell of jasmine, though i have never smelled jasmine in my life, or at least can't recall it. but they had your eyes, and this was undeniable.