The Visitation
We stand there, souls divided, desire spilling from our slow-blinking eyes.
You haven’t come to me like this since December 2016. Though you’ve appeared in other forms, meeting you on the astral plane remains my favorite.
Early this morning, around three or four a.m., ich sehe in der Ferne—I see you in the distance, hovering in the black void, smiling. For once, your hair is relaxed. You wear a glowing white button-down shirt. Civilian clothes. Good. The pale blue of your eyes carries contentment, a dreamy visitor from an ethereal world.
You telepathically invite me to dinner.
"Finally," I reply, grinning.
No tears this time. No wrestling with illusions. No academic fencing. No barren fields.
I’m reliving a past in Martha’s Vineyard. Nick Drake plays in the background of a quiet restaurant on a desolate November evening. I hadn’t realized you were with me then.
Is this our dinner now, drawn into the echo of a memory?
I stand before you again, waving, hidden in the darkness, clothed in the deepest black.
"Gorgeous," you say, your voice reaching me without sound, your eyes capturing me like a photograph.
I am mist, drifting into the bedroom with you—only to be pulled away, back to my studio. I watch myself threading wire through malachite beads.
Then, darkness again. I push forward, determined to reach you, but an invisible wall holds me back.
We stand there, souls divided, desire spilling from our slow-blinking eyes. You murmur something, but before I can grasp it, you vanish—the moment shattered by my cat’s yowl.
I jolt back into my body, sitting up in bed without reaching for the light.
My heart, heavy with the weight of your invisible presence, betrays the fleeting joy of seeing you tonight. This struggle—this ache—remains. But eternity with you is only one dimension away.
Please, visit me again soon.
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