“Perhaps by dreaming you I create you, real in some other reality; perhaps it is there that you are mine, In a different, pure world without tangible bodies, with Another kind of embrace and other, ideal forms of possessing. Perhaps my dreaming of you was simply my finding you, and my loving you merely my thinking of you… It could be that I already loved you in some vague wherever, and that my nostalgia for that love makes everything in my present life a tedium… you’re always the landscape that I was just about to lay eyes on, the hem of the robe I just missed seeing, lost in an eternal Now beyond the bend in the road… When I go to touch your robe my expressions grow weary from the effort to stretch out their hands and a stiff, painful fatigue freezes in my words. And so the flight of a bird circles around what I wished to say about you, seeming to come nearer but never arriving, for the substance of my phrases cannot imitate the substance of your footsteps soft thudding, or your glance’s slow sweeping, or of the sad empty colour traced by the gestures you never made. And should I speak with someone far away, and should you who today are a cloud of the possible fall tomorrow as rain of reality over the earth, don’t ever forget your divine origin as my dream. Let whatever you are in real life serve as the dream of a loner, never as a lover’s refuge….
“Love is a mysticism that wants to be materialized, an impossibility that our dreams always insist must be possible.”