actinic light, and then the self

To Wake on the Other Side of Sleep

and we will never cease.

pulling on the sultry night silence of the walls,

our beddreams ensorcel

and we'll confide our souls,

liplessly praying

that someone might stumble upon our secrets.

we won't give way.

the sticky insides of the heart

palpate like children's arms

flailing in humid overgrown fields.

airy wings of gold,

softer and freer than an eyelash in light,

existing with remarkable, intangible thickness.

and we wait.

the three moonless nighttimes held

the density of the earth's core.

only it was cold. cold matter.

a cold core.

centers should be ends, endless, end-

lessly beginning, endings, ending.

less than measurable,

more than zephyr.

but during those times, evenings were an atmosphere so solid that it went beyond solid, into the realm of surreality where time is a place. in our waiting, we almost crossed with it, longing to return to the future that we had neatly planned. the prints were drafted when we were old, with disregard for our opening and closing flesh.

thoughts flicker

while we sleep

we share a dream

exhilarated by fear and

motion.

our dreams can't wait for reality.

you wrote this with me. you wrote me. wrote me down. as I wrote you. we are stories living in living sleep, and its as real as ever. there, looking into the sun, effusive rays of colors that I don’t understand flooded the water, my heart, and consequently my whole self .

I looked into my own eyes as they turned the color of the sun.

lens flares surround my pupils now,

and my world is engrossed in that cinematic bliss.

we said it.

or I did.

or-

just or.

abstractions and utopias don't infiltrate my dreams.

I know I will feel tender to the touch

and awake enough to cry.