As I approach your outline in my head,
the Pillars of Hurqalya loom on both sides
and a message from the heavens bears ever-present:
Nec plus ultra. I shan’t go forth.
I am no Hercules; I cannot bore through mountains.
I only face a sea of impossibilities and an inadequacy
profound enough to force my return.
You do not like me “like that” and I must accept my fate.
I was not instilled with divine attributes,
and should Atlas offer to fetch me the quinces
preciously guarded among Hesperides’ flowers,
I would have to decline in overwhelming sorrow,
as I could not support the weight of the world
not even for moments as he completed my labor.
Reality doesn’t tend to take shape as I wish
so I am forced to gaze towards imaginary dreamscapes,
where I may place your hand in mine
and envision our bodies, side by side.
But dream as I may, I’m forbidden to enter
into that Edenic garden, that tin-plated Tartessos,
so I lean from the mast at the Strait of Gibraltar
and contemplate the life that lies beyond.
How can I reach you, project my image at your side.
It will never happen. I am no descendent of the great.
These types of things only happen in myths.
And I’m not heir to any of that.
I have a keyboard and anxiety
and an awareness of your absence,
so all I may do is go back to sleep
and continue to dream “another day.”