but maybe, nearly
the minor melancholy key
a quiet scene on film
lines from a lyric
a scent
a memory.
I save these clippings,
show them around,
even if they go unnoticed.
Somewhere
sometime
another human kept this
and found a way to express it.
I steal from those that have
felt the tragedy of a dream
with no ground in reality.
Nothing need come of it
but the feeling is shown
and digested, and
hopefully
shared.
I've transmitted in the bath
still, concentrating,
sent it with tears
through sleep
through breath
in untranslatable language.
I refuse to shrink down
clean and repackage
into letters and words.
I will project silently
haunt with raw emotion
across realms
through the dark.