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In my Dreams

Gorgeous,

chrome-plated horses,

run rampant in my dreams

with the judgement that I

refuse to give towards myself.

In my dreams,

every mistake I’ve made

haunts me ;

degrades me—

bit, by bitter bit;

desolate and mystifying


In my dreams,

you’re without clothes

a lot more lurid—

hypnotically.

In fact,

I can’t tell

where smooth, silky porcelain ends

and you begin;

I can see my breath—

the breath you take for yourself


In my dreams,

we think nothing of it,

above it,

I love it.

You’ve got on your shoes,

as you exit your bed,

with the moon in your veins,

but you’re not as perfect,

as I remember.


In my dreams,

the face is awry,

with some variation

of momentary bliss.

Candles lit, and lustrous fits.


In my dreams,

you sit and dole

on my endless thoughts,

composing boxes of my sorrows,

and organizing my agony.

At times,

you’flip t

the volumes of an antihero.


In my dreams,

you‘ll sit in thought,

until the aura is right,

in your mandarin sweater,

and shorts stitched in kindness—

stretching and breathing,

as an example for me.






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