A Lack of Correspondence

I’m a work of fantasy,
And I’m my own narrator.
Now’s when things get dangerous.

If I’m how I want to be,
I have to admit a lack
Of correspondence with you,

Others, or reality.
When I’m how I want to be,
I wake up here, in the trees.

I am not human; at least,
I am not as humans are
Not atmospheres, oceans, dirt—

If you ask me to touch you,
I can’t. Or you won’t be pleased.
I’m in woods. I’m in moonlight.

I’m only this voice of me,
Which is language but can’t speak.
There’s a path in front of me.