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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