Enigma

Accustomed as you are to providing people with reason enough to believe what they want to be true, how can I know you? You don't speak what I need to hear. If you did, would I know it as truth?

Ah, You... and your 'distractions.' Foolish one, I can't be any more distracted than I already am.

From what? Somedays I think I know, but what purpose does it serve? What purpose, indeed?

Yet, I wonder. I torment myself with the wondering, like a child enamored of stars whose telescope is but cardboard entrails of paper towels.

So then, shall we dance? And if we dance, to what music? I can't dance without it, though it plays constantly in my head. My scherzo fails to match your pulsing samba, much as I might try to direct it. And you, I can see you promenade on, oblivious... the music in your imaginings far too real for me.