The bed is just another happy pill
to bitterly swallow every midnight
when your lungs are still encapsulated
along the taste of the caffeine infested air.

(beds float)

I always do this trick, that
when my eyes hang loose from waiting
for another sunrise and blooming of a wilted flower,
I would turn to my side and wilt myself
while shutting everything pitch black—

(yes, exactly like how that flower is wilted before
blooming on a six a.m. sunrise.)

It became my favorite game—
when I would turn myself into a                            baby—
fingers intertwined into a prayer—
feet bended—afraid
that the lava will kiss my calloused feet;

and my mind would wonder
trying to align the stars to make a path;
trying to wonder off to the galaxy
in the next house, in the next street, in the next corner—
trying to kiss innocence “come back”

(I know the spectrum blooms
better when our eyes are shut.)

but things are on a constant revolution
for change—permanence is a temporary
vase, shattered by accidental running
and childhood giggling.                        change…

childhood tricks and lullabies
won’t visit my prisoner mind anymore

like sepia pillows softly
kissing my checks trying to write
a poem I knew where smudged
along the coffee stains.

I’m on my way to my Fatherhood
dreams (beds float)
and my head is as soft as nostalgia
pillow in the corner of the bed.