Crossing a busy road March 22

And those figures have re-appeared.
Snuggled in close to me
as if I am not just a dreamer
I am also a warm, cagey, a to-be
friend. These figures aren’t as heavy as shadows
as flat as apparitions,
they are suspiscious.

If I believe
what I see,
and do not seek
anything further…
how is it that when I am crossing roads
you are sitting in a chair
and calling me on the phone?
Why is it that I can sit with you
and still miss the core of you,
the meaty, luscious core of you?
Is anger the only passion we share,
or the only passion we can convey over distance?
Your windows never look to the pale blue sky,
mine are haunted by it.
I try to go home as late as I can,
so that all I can do is sleep
and wake up to another version
of this surreality.