I don’t want to be left drifting again,
compared to shadows when
there’s no comparison
to you.
We speak truth in our actions,
and we have found ours
in the patterns
we behold to the other,
somewhere in the space of
the morning air and the starry night,
we place our whispered thoughts
into the universe to be heard
so that we can ease our troubled minds.
Be mine,
and I’ll be yours,
and let’s run from stepping stone
to trails covered in pine needles
where we bed for the night,
only us,
under the stars and heaven
above.

You run through my thoughts
like rain,
creeping, seeping,
soaking
me
through.

Burning pages sit heavy
on a bedside table
into the night -
their light the only,
and purposefully so.
You walk past without candor,
eyes aimed into the world
yet seen.
The light fades from the burning pages,
and you start.
What is that?
A shuffle in the room,
a twinkle in the stars.
A door slams in the distance,
echoing in the walls
surrounding.
You thumb the ashes,
how they still feel warm and silky,
and then brush your cheek.
Where have my words gone today?

Habits of delusion are not in my repertoire,
or are they?
That’s exactly what a deluded person
would think.
Sometimes my wheels spin against nothing,
open air,
and produce endless possibilities,
is that really only sometimes?
Maybe it’s all the time.
Maybe it’s so much so fast so often
that my thoughts are unreliable,
impossible to untangle,
distinguish from the next,
they just run together
anyway.
Sleep? Who needs it,
I’m on overdrive,
working, thinking,
going
gone

You appeared in another dream -
this time we said goodbye.