Black as night. Dreamy. You were her Bernstein. It was never Leonard, it was always Dean. Dean this, Dean that. This woman, that woman. A Vivian here, a Vivian there. And your mother? McClara? We were alway in the dark, she kept it that way intentionally. Never to know. Always to wonder. But she never told. That was the way she was. Saying one thing, meaning another. But even though you were always so vivid, I doubted your existence.
I wander in search of my own Dean Dixon. It isn't black and white. Not anymore. I was always color blind. Were you? I see you with a violin. A bow. A poised body. Ready to engage. Serious. Intent. I wait for sound. Bow hitting string. Fingers moving up and down. Pizzicato. Imaginary music. No sound emerges.
I know I am not her, but I search for her in my body. My pores. My blue eyes searching out her brown. Dark hair, blonde. Perhaps it is something in my limbs. In my shape casting a shadow that links us. It has to. Because if there is nothing there, my loneliness will never end. My heart will never stop searching. Inside and outside, the attachment lingers. The skin grows thinner. The veins reveal the connection. Like her, I prefer light over dark. Inside over out.
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