d.

I want to call d. and wish at him that he were here, in this less-than-dank pit of mine, just because there could be something in his answer that lets me know he wants it too. I want to see that look in his eyes, that too-bright gleam like blue suns, the indistinguishable curl to the lips that means he has Plans. I want to let him know that it's okay that he's got a lot going on, that he needn't spare so many moments and attentions for me, that it's okay to ignore me once in a while.

And yet, referencing the past again, he is the only person who has ever given me his undivided attention, the only one who has said and meant and proven that I matter to him. I know that it is not simply tact that keeps him from letting me know what he sets above me in importance.

I blush at my audacious sentimentality (Remind me to pray that no-one I know reads this.) as I start to note that I know from his hands what living marble must feel like, only better.

In my dreams, however, he is never there. Almost never. When I dream, the people I love are always allegorical figures of some sort, and I frequently wear greyish-blue, and I can never find him. There is almost no sign of him in my subconscious, as far back as I can remember. I can dredge up childhood dreams that say twolettersafterh. I knew that the whisperer in Portuguese who woke me unsatisfied was e. My sister and I had the same dream about my brother on Halloween, and it sort of happened. But he is nowhere to be found.

The post-dawn madness of me wonders if that means I don't really know him, and recalls that I can never properly explain him to someone else, that I can't possibly encapsulate him in words and give him off to a stranger because there is too much and so much of it bends into me.

The tiniest corner of me is terrified that he ignored me twice, and the larger angles are entirely too contemptuous to answer.