In Your Dreams With That Crap
There should be a place where only the things you want to happen, happen
Maurice Sendak
Whelp, here I go again running off the mouth at things I have no idea about. What things, you ask? Oh, I don’t know. Stuff. Things. Whatever’s in-between. Being human is harder than it looks. You have to go into your dreams with that level of crap. No one ever can be this candid!
Horizontal.
Lie down. Asleep.
Your shape comfortably contoured where you lay, where you’ve laid—frozen but alive. Eyes rapidly chasing shadows and breathing as soft as a pillow.
In dreams, I walk with you. In dreams, I never talk to you.
In dreams, you’re mine all the time. I dance around in circles to no music playing. When I’m around slow dancing in the dark, you end up in my arms. The bridge of my nose follows an invisible maze just behind your ear, vacuuming pieces of you into my universe, by way of the back of your neck, your shoulder. These indescribable lyrics of you swallow me. Sight is useless, and touch triumphs.
Your shape comfortably contoured where we lay—frozen and alive. Eyes still chasing familiar shadows and breathing as faint as a breeze.
Horizontal. Lying down.
Awake.
“Remember, I am not “in” love with you. When I say or think or even do things that attempt to prove that I love you, please put it in your pocket and save it for another day. A futile goal in a world that’s crumbling before us with people changing as often as shoes. After a long day in the summer heat, I came up with that little ditty, imagining what makes me “happy.” Sleep and sweet unknown scents I gather.”