dreams are elusive ghosts,
but every once in awhile I will find my the dimples of my back grazing the frigid Hudson,
the treetops seeping into my grayscale skin like lotion.

it is within this reality that I may briefly forget the constant screech of your tired bones,
a relief beyond the sensation of any ****** or chocolate cupcake.

reality is not such a simple plot-line.
rather than spin you on the dance floor like a lavender goddess,
i'm punishing my liver for existing.

this is where my naïve psyche meets the memory of your golden shoulder-bones-
where my broken, bitten-down fingers feel your unyielding flexibility and stark vulnerability like sandpaper Hallmark cards.

it is a true talent to seep the modest current without searching beyond the horizon-

for the air feels like tar without anyone to breathe it with.
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