oh, i am an insidious thing; i pretend not to know the implications.
my dreams are troubled again.

grant me fixity;
my mind is reaching out in all directions,
many tendrils, like vines, live wires
crawling over the covers,
dropping to the ground,
over the floors and up the walls,
to the spaces under doors and out the cracks in the windowsill
to scatter uneasy through the damp grass and darkened trees.

lover, you ought to capture me like a lightning bug in a jar,
though their glow is much warmer than any that i can give off
besides, they always starve to death, don't they?

don't you understand? oh, but how could you?
does it even make sense to say i want to want to stay?