If I wake up from a dream and I've opened my eyes and may as well not have in all the darkness--there's no relief. Is it possible that I'm only capable of love in my dreams?
If I wake up, I can only hold on to fragments of it, the frayed edges, rough to the touch and weathered (in my mind, Tibetan prayer flags in slight mountain wind and rain)and somehow burning to the touch: small scale rug-burn.
Tangible memory, along with all my words have been melting onto a single paint palette. I try to think back and get covered in paint. Blue paint, watered down and washed over everything, smudging your sideways eyes.
If I wake up and there is a call for convention anything, let me shut my eyes. Let me protect myself from behind the twists of sheets. Let me overheat with my own guilt until sleep is all I am.
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