Slow, you breathe. Barrel-chested shelter. Shelterer, from weathers and fictions seen only for a moment. They flutter under the lids, furled and reeled by your celluloid-spun mind. If only I were there. I do not want to be cold. (I am trying.) Just to warn you, I’m a bit of a hoarder. But I’ll keep the edit room floor clean. I am ready to say it. (And I am not ready.)
You mumble these dreams. I promise I’ll guard each like my own. Every word you will ever almost say. Your orphans, your nothings. Your ”please understand”s. And the “never mind”s. They sigh heavy in your greasy paper lungs. Babe, even your un-popped kernels are gold. If only you knew. I lose sleep over that kind of garbage. I remember which closet. Which shoebox it’s in. I am ready to say it…
You want a wider-angle lens for your camera. A few more popcorn munchers at the alter. I want to know just how cold it gets in your room at night. To rustle in drifts of your lightly salted dream fluff. I want to measure winter’s gradient from the bed’s edge to yours. If only I were there. I do not want to be cold. (I am trying.) I am ready to say it. (And I am not ready.)