he wept, T.S. Eliot
for he lost a poem he penned
by hand--a piece that called itself
The Waste Land

in which he declared
April was the cruelest month
but he recalled little more, while scavenging
his memory for wily words

though I did not weep with him
I placed a light palm on his shoulder
to tell him I understood, for we all
lamented the loss of verse

phrases that came to us in dreams
lines that licked clean the inside of our skulls
words that repeated themselves, coming and going,
coming and going with each breath

It is hard
on your soul
to admit
how often
you have
been full
of ****.

You were the show on Netflix
that I knew would end in a cliffhanger
because it was cancelled after the first season
but I watched it anyway.

I dreamt—oh,
how I dreamt

that you were carrying
my child.

I do not remember who you were,
nor do I remember who I was
in this particular dream.
Perhaps a favourite character of mine
from a TV show I love.

But my body was not my body,
nor was your body yours.

In spirit, I knew you
and I knew myself,
and that's all that really mattered.

I still don't remember who you were, though,
my dream lover...

my subconscious desire?

We fell under peril and
ran
from some villain. Things
went wrong,
as things in my life are wont to do.

This villain, threatening
our child, our happiness,
was—of course—still less of a
monster
than me.

I do not recall how it ended.
But
I kissed you.
Soft, and sweet, and loving;
your lips were so warm
and your body, your hands—
they felt like
home.

That kiss...
it was perhaps
the gentlest thing I've ever done,

and so that is how I came to wake up:
because I knew it wasn't real.

I am not gentle. I do not love.

To be teased, to be pleasing, to be smiling, or yet to cry
To take notice, after an ecstasy of rage
It understands you, it understands me: Our hearts
Breakfast for two in the ****

Muscles tighten without the pain,
hearing the wishes of our inner self
Pitter, patter on the window pane
to be teased, to be pleasing, to be smiling, or yet to cry
fulfillment, enjoyment, pleasurable moments
Breakfast for two in the ****,
What I wouldn’t give for such a dream

I want the sun to kiss me upon my forehead
To comfort the cold that stings inside of me
The one that overwhelms me with darkness
I want the wind to blow fresh air into my lungs
Since those are the ones to be tiring the fastest
Leaving me breathless like almost-lovers before