And then there are the dreams when I become him. The cold creeping sludge seeping up through my soles Filling my legs and I rise flimsy high and hateful Treading unearthly imprints into the faded mossy carpet Up the curved stairs, one, two, three then creak Watching hushed through the rails as the landing clock
Let’s go to our sacred place, over the bridge where the tulips smile Touch the silk and handmade lace and stay awhile Let’s go to the café without a name, under the domes in mosaic shade Drink spiced tea from a tiny glass, and nibble on the candied figs Let’s go sit under trees by
And that’s when she ran through the buttercups Laughing as the wind blew, her dress catching on the stalks Of wildness ahead of her Limbs falling over limbs, tumbling into fields of yellow Fingers grasping everything, petals that she never knew Dropped her ring into the stream, endless depths of flowing green Sunlight dancing on
He kept the long ago wrapped in the softest tissue paper Now his hands gingerly opened the faded velvet fold A fragile petal corpse, shriveled inside her snowy coffin Her veiny amethyst colour truly once was azure bold A salty tear will not wake the sleeping beauty in his palm No bigger than his thumbnail
His shipwreck haunts me tonight, a waking lullaby I’m obsessed and it summons me down to play My dress vanishes into treacle blue, anchor heavy Pearls glide from me, an eternal translucent loop “There’s nothing for you down there” but he’s waiting With cerulean kisses and that long familiar touch His cobalt kingdom envelops me
Nightingale, how much gold, to own your sugared song? A melancholy lullaby that lulls me to my slumber long Nightingale my gilded cage is waiting here for you With sweetened almonds, crystal spring and milky honey dew Nightingale I promise you, I’d adorn you when you sing A ruby ring upon your claw and diamonds
And he knelt at the graveside clawing at the crimson dirt Was misery ever so wretched? Or silence so gnawing? The earth as thirsty and fruitless as his soul without her The tender roses dried up, their pinks a brittle unloved russet And he spoke, demanding his answers from them Words uttered, a singsong mantra,
And fear scratched my throat, a feral creature Nostalgia and panic a pallet of olive and scarlet Diverse in my being leaving me custard flimsy He and his favorite blue sweater, faded and frayed as the time Raven hair damp from the season and that scent, Washing powder, eager cologne and fondness My knuckles breaking
