He sat, powerless, behind his own eyes and watched this situation play out exactly as it had before.
Only this time it was worse. It was so much worse because he knew he had had the dream before because he knew he had written the poem about having had the dream before. H knew her every word before it left her beautiful lips. H knew every pause for breath rushed so he couldn’t interrupt. He knew the exact words which would be reinforced by the polyrhythmic drip-drip of tears splashing on his shirt. He silently whispered the words along with hers with the lips behind the mask of the self who was in the situation. He tried to force himself to do something different, to say something, to reach out to her in a different way, but he wasn’t in control of the situation, merely spectating its replay. Not that he would have known how to make any of it any better. What was there to do but weep?
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