Nightmare Without End, Amen

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


It's a nightmare to see you. If I catch a glimpse of you without warning, my heart gives a panicked lurch, like a frightened cat trying to bolt every which way at once. Yet I placed you on the face of my phone so that anytime I use it, I see you smiling, caught in mid-wave. Sometimes I forget and you surprise me anyway.

Your eyes are so bright there.

Thanks to an app, I can wave back. A slip of my finger could establish contact and collapse the six hundred miles between us. It almost has a dozen times. But I can't afford to bring that much scrutiny upon myself. That's a short cut to immediate rejection. I know that without doubt or reservation. But to stop looking at you is to invite further loss. This construct where we are almost together gives me some small measure of hope. Surely in some other universe--at least allow me one!--we are together and happy for more than a day.

Looking at you is nightmare of conflicting emotions: love, desire, self-loathing, but it's a nightmare that I don't want to end.


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