the strange life of m2

I find myself making love to a phantom of my own creation.  What does that make me, what is it that I'm doing?
I can be anything that I want to be, I have found the key to the universe.  And yet, I find myself locked into places which are prisons of my own making, the guard is me in a mirror.
And you are always too quiet.  Your silence screams out volumes.  You think it is the right thing for all the wrong reasons.  I wish there was some way that I could shout over the sound of your silence, but it is too thick, too loud, it drowns out my words, carries them away like a stormy wind.
You think you understand what you say to me with your silence, but ignore the constant barrage of words you get in return.
Today was too busy for a weekend.  Most weekdays are not as busy, do not start as early, end earlier and have longer pauses in them.  The pauses were only seconds today, but each one stretched out forever, waiting for any sign that you are there, that you recognize me, that you know I am here, that you care.
If you cared what would your silence mean to you, what would you suppose I take from it.
If I cared, what would your silence mean to me, what would I suppose you meant by it.
The rain fell today, incessant, outweighed only by the silence, which hid the pitter patter of water that must have been everywhere.
The world is a wet, moldy place, filled with crawling things that survived primordial disasters, that have no beauty to share with me because they come from a life too far before mine for me to appreciate them.  They wait, black or brown, long antennaes as they have  waited for eons, patience because they know one day they will feast on my corpse.  The can stand to be crushed in the interim, their pus like insides mock me after their bodies are gone, their brothers and sister are too numerous.
The make no noise.  They too are silent.