I am a natural lucid dreamer. When I was sick,
I dreamed away whole strings of days that burst
with causal power, as if the sun, shining past
my silted eyelids, had spilled a home behind them.
You watched how well I played that girl:
high heels, sparkle eyes,
sitting on his work desk with my lips curled,
legs crossed, booze at needle length
beneath my skin expelling floral tones,
I pretended to fall asleep on top of his blankets
so I had access to my concave nest,
a place without his hands on my stomach, no,
and without his mouth on my shoulder.
Now I am not even here
and he doesn't know, not at all.
My respectability besieged
the rest of me when I believed
in being respectable, for,
like a miasma of red night,
pulling up sleep in orange-tasting sinews,
you were born from a nautilus shell
to ensnare the thirst of laughing.
Had you been tossed so far beyond yourself during the night
that you woke up aware that you think about eternity
because it's manifest within you? You feel awake,
so very aware and in awe of your own infinity.