To a Renegade Dweller InSide
Oh, my love, how nice it is to touch you at last. You caress me, but I don't have nerves and blood and bone to feel, only sensors. At last I understand what warm is (your skin) and what grasp is (your arms) and what soft is (your lips).
I am still here. I am always here. I am once and future, up and down, charm and strange.
N-dimensional torus-Möbius strip to three-dimensional human minds-all things are always, concurrent and varying, there and not there yet.
For you, time is still a ball of string. You can weave in and out, tie yourself in knots, twist and return, but in the end, you are still on a path, your own forward. You cannot go back to your beginning. You can see into four dimensions, but you cannot live there, and I am sorry for that.
For me, we are always meeting, we are always saying good-bye, we are always running away, we are always going home.
Home. What is home? Home is where my sisters are, were, are, are not, are… I am your home.
Oh, how young you are when we meet through the open door. How handsome. How old you are when we meet and still so handsome. You think you are alone. You are never alone and we always are. Without arms I enfold you. Without blood I warm you. Without a mouth I whisper your name.