The Enlightenment

If I could speak to you now, I would
tell you, just so you know, I am no
closer to the truth than I was before.
I am sorry. I would tell you, for
the first time, though, now that I have
realized the significance of milliseconds,
about my old home. There was a door
mirror in my mother's bedroom. In that
mirror one morning I startled my own
inside self who stood staring for the
first time, plainly, at the simple flesh
surrounding all his very unsimple
bones and purposes. I would finally
confess that, since then, I have always
been on the outside looking in, have been,
believe me, sorry to be that way. If I could
speak to you now, I would ask if you
remember sitting on a bench outside
a church once. I can still picture the way
your right eye looked in the streetlight
that night. I would ask if you remember
numbly groping our outside selves
on your night floor, seeing but not
truly feeling each other there. What
I would say to you now could only possibly
concern little details like the sometimes
moon, the way she is huge now and then,
spying from behind the topmost cross
of the church in backyard. All I could
say would be that when I examine
my skin now, I am no closer to the truth
than I was before. I am sorry. I cannot
bear to stare any deeper than my skin,
into my own eyes, say.
I dream of never brushing by you
just so I can finally prove how much I still
slightly hope I never see you again.