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I'm getting the message again and
again
each time I try to reach him,
go beyond the screen
to press my
face next to his, over the tables,
at bars, in crowded rooms; his lips brush me
in hurried pecks.
He
flashes his worldwide achievements, he teases
my hands, pressing my
fingers
before he disappears.
I'm stunned by the glimpses he gives me of his life,
I linger over his
every word,
just like his page.
The speeches he makes in my
direction!
My nights groan with images
that develop like shutters
of all he promises to deliver -- I stare for
hours
at the number he slipped me,
amazed he'd give me access to his
world.
It's getting mechanical.
There's no real connection
though I try and try
to have a real
talk,
following his lead.
Maybe I'm not asking right, I'm not leaving
space
where space is called for,
I'm throwing things off.
All I see of him is
the carefully projected self
he offers to everybody.
He won't open up.
I know I'll never see his home.
I'd ask him directly
to tell me what
he's withholding
but I know it would end in a breakdown
for me, a
collapse
of the little contact I've managed to establish.
He's not refusing a
connection
but there's no exchange:
it's all one sided,
leading
nowhere.
There's nowhere for me to go but back.
I have to move on and
accept
I won't find in him what I'm searching for,
though I know he could
give it to me,
he boasts he has everything I need,
he's everything I've always wanted,
anyone could want.
He's not
available.
He doesn't exist.
Not really. I don't want to be another
admirer
he keeps at a distance.
I must stop trying
to be one of the privileged
few
he might respond to.
This is a link
that was never valid,
that I have to learn to ignore,
forget.
I'm
ashamed of all the times I let him lead me on.
I have to pry myself from the
net;
I don't need to be reminded of codes.
I know no one can help me.
I'd
had enough -- he taught me the system.
I am fully aware
I've made a
mistake.
This page last updated on 23 October 2001