Slippery

I can barely name it.
It's hard to own.
Peculiar. Slippery.
So...she?
Me?  I don't know.

I am where I want
to be
but I don't know
how I got here.  Or
how I'm standing.
You are just
    outside the door,
almost perfect as far
as I can see but I
don't know why
you're there-
or here.
Because in another
life, I didn't know
you, could not have
made you up.
And I woke up from
a dream I thought
was life and there or
here you were.  Real.
Tangible.  Soft
weighted as snow
and warm
but when I touch you,
               I'm not sure
               I exist.
Because my existence
depended, always, on
            someone
                        else.
Someone I made up.
Someone I couldn't
touch. So, I've lost
time somehow, though
the facts are in.
Point A to Point B
    is written plain.
My fingers follow,
trace the
lines or path and
  I understand
  some girl
I suppose is me
must have traveled
logically from a to
b
but
the numbers mix with
letters and years with
days and time with
lapse and though
it doesn't rhyme I
still can't read it
easily.

So, I have to pinch
myself to see if I
am real but my
skin is numb in
certain places in
certain moments.

It's like, what if God
              was dead,
which is a shit
                analogy
but as close as I
can come to naming
what I can not name.

It's like any belief
disproved.  Like a
whole body transplant.
Like a story
within a story within
           a story,
           a twist-ending
so seemingly
out of nowhere,
you're just pissed off,
shaking your head,
                   rewinding.

But
     the rewind button
     is broken.
Or he was broken.
I was broken.
And I think I might
               now be
               whole
if I
knew for sure that I
       was real.

Your love seems to
touch my velveteen
and your belief is
strong- maybe,
          magic.

So, just stay
until my sense of
feel
comes back.
Wait till
I can grasp it, hold
it, skin it.
Till it dies and I
come back to life.