At the corner, waiting to turn.
His hand in my hand
but I’m still looking for
someone,
distracted by the dream fading.
I need to wake up,
I know.
But it feels so nice
when you visit me
sleeping curled tight in my covers,
and have grand and tragic
adventures on my behalf
as we chit-chat in the slumbering dark.
Oh! The tug is tugging
his hand is pulling
it’s time to turn.
I can’t help but to look both ways
for your cool asphalt shadow.

you are like
being a child, waking up
from a dreamless slumber,
suddenly awake
warm beneath the soft comforter
your grandmother sewed for your brother
the one faded almost to threads,
so white and gently patterned in the eight am sun
and fall has come
and the air is clear and dry and cold
but the sunlight is warm
so you cast off the comfort of the comforter
you holler silently down wooden hallways
you scatter loosely down broken gravel pathways
and out into and endless grass
up to the waist, with purple and golden flowers
all covered in wet night dew
and you sing the song of the soul
that is
the chilly tickle of water droplets running down your legs
and the slight scratch of the blades of grass across your ankles
and legs.
The song of morning
and of bright sunlight
and of fresh air and rebirth,
a song of things passing on
and new things beginning to
be.

you are like the small minutes
of infinite and beautiful and
humble freedom
that makes us all human again.

This end marks the beginning
Just another page written
Edited into a new story
A continuation
But in a different language
In a place yet unseen
So that all the tears cried
Out of fond farewell
Can be the ink
Of this new chapter

I am lonely.

I am lonely.

I am lonely.

But shhhhhh

Don’t tell anyone