A Dry Place That Lies

I reach out to touch you,
reach with illusions or redemption.
Reach out with shaking hands.
Dirty fingernails chewed
weathered, beaten
abused without mercy.
Worked.Closing to grasp air.
Dust and dead skin cells.
Particles of history.
Invisible.
Stumbling into that disappearing act
an infidel at the mercy of your magic.
Sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors.
Falling into your reflection
face first.
Gravity wells of danger.
Lacerated from broken glass.
You call and I come
but you're never really there.
Stray transmissions or
an elaborate ruse to placate the masses
or maybe just me.
Am I that really important?
Deluded and paranoid
and mostly just desperate.
You don't bother with my rhetoric
or the need I might entertain for
a defineable place in your reality of mine.
You can pick a spot in the river
and follow it
but you'll eventually lose it to a fall or the ocean.
Perhaps it just dries up
exposing the cracked
surface of my life.
The real truth,
rocks and bones and abandoned rustings.
Who can dig for treasure
in a place like that?
Will you pave my marrow
like they'd pave that dry devoid place?
Where the river no longer runs
when the heart no longer beats
when my voice no longer matters?
Before you open the gates
and wash it
all away?