And then my eyelids let go of my eyes

I told you:
I think
my subconscious hates me.

There was the time
a couple weeks ago
I dreamed my dad and my brother died;
then a week or so
after that, dreaming that
we were forced to put both our dogs down
when there was nothing wrong with them.

So it makes sense, then,
that in the first dream you show up in,
you had been dating someone else and
we broke up and
you weren’t sorry.

Hazy edges around
all the people I now
have to avoid,
over to the table and
ignore some
stranger’s smirk.
Maybe she is wearing red and
every ceiling tile points out how–
and then that–
and moving–
and whatever–
and whatever and whatever and
and whatever and whatever doesn’t matter walk a–
and where are we,
and the echoes
painted white like drowning curtains
why can I never speak in my nightmares
and whatever and whatever
and forget it and–

When sleep becomes
a manifesto of the daylight worries
instead of an escape, I
wake up
drink strong coffee
offer weak smiles.


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