To the one who doesn't breathe

If there was time I dreamt of waking up to the sunlight filtering in through green leaves, this is it. I dream of gurgling water, white pebbles and white mist. I dream of the silence of the chirping birds. I dream of paused moments.
But I wake up breathless. I wake up to harsh sunlight. I wake up to loud phone calls. I wake up to super fast time. But I don’t wake up to sunlight filtering in through green leaves.
My fingers move fast and smooth, their tips connecting me to you. It’s a bit like touching. But the keyboard with which you can touch me is not there. It will never be.
I wish I could show you everything that I see. I wish I could find every pebble on the brown riverbed and show you.
But the trout still swims. And the water still flows. And I can still swim to the bottom to get you the white pebbles, those ones with the smooth rounded sides. The sun still jumps along the creases on the surface.
And tonight the moon will also rise—high above the treetops. The moon will also jump along the creases on the surface. I love the moon. I love you.