The air in my bedroom is blue,
I float through it, a stark vessel
tussling against the dark hue
desperate to nestle into sheets,
or clouds,
or weary dreams filled
with a dark street,
a slammed foot,
and a hair's breadth
from turning a deer into dead meat,
resulting in a crash,
leaving a dead me;
Only to awake shaken,
recollecting a statement
from my grandma's dementia ridden mind
"I always see it with you,
it's always right behind..."
then I sit up with a sigh
and a shrug,
and open up to the blue air,
at least whatever it is
will always be there,
will always...
care