The One That Got Away

I wish there were more of me I could share with you, that there were more layers to delve beneath and around and through, but there's just this. To try and find more would be like scraping at a cement floor; sure you'd get pieces, but it's only dust particles just the same as all the rest. I can't give you any new portions, just more, and even your favourite sandwich gets old and full of mold and you have to throw it away. And in truth, I never intended to be a favourite, just a temporary fix 'til the perfect taste combination was discovered and you could complete all your picnics with just the right addition. I never planned to get this close, where eyesight blurs and lines fade and sometimes it's as though our atoms are forming their own Purusha-Prakriti myth, forming a universe just for us. If the subject is the observer, is the observation, then I can't know you without me, and maybe that's a fair argument for staying together, just for the sake of your existence and proof to calm my panic of solipsism. But you're a mirror ball, baby, and what I see isn't the whole, so you go on even when that reflection fades. And maybe even when Purusha turns away finally bored of the dance, maybe those dust particles still remain, turning themselves into a bookshelf or a roof to keep safe these memories.

Or maybe I'm just a shallow selfish bitch, running away from anything that tries to make me feel like more. Maybe I've always been a river person, allowing myself to be swept away by currents and circuitry, rather than dipping deep into lakes and oceans.  Merely a slow swimming salmon on her way back up the hill, you mistook me for something rare when I was just the only easy catch.