ODE TO THE DREAMER’S BEDFELLOW:- you’re mounting the open sea, you can’t take your eyes off him, glittering cascades of sand, how the coral ruckus swirled inside his oceania eyes, arms carved into fine candle opera, the world strums to his chords (his bones, his breath.) blue raindrops curtain purple mornings, that candy apple sweetness still soft on the tongue, there’s a gap somewhere in between his disillusion and your mirage (a place where all of heaven’s discarded harps go.) so he’s sitting up on his elbows, lashes flirting the light, & he asks, "can you make a bed out of me?“ you laugh, he’s more than bed. he’s the whole goddamn room. (and the earth thrums in agreement.) the picture frame with crooked teeth. the phosohorescent galaxies on the ceiling; and his mouth makes you feel like the cupboard you stuffed your shaking body into when you wanted to hide away from the world for a little while. some nights you want to close your eyes, and you don’t anyway. just in case the dream fades while you weren’t looking & you forget the warm length of it and how it splinters your every nerve like a flower with swords for petals. and you only bleed on saturdays, when it's all flesh wounds and your reflection going cold through rainy windows. but the world spins where his hands press against the countertop and you watch imagining the weight of them replacing the faulty ribs in your chest. and he’s still fluttering across your highway lines, when it’s dreamless outside and the moon isn’t full enough to swallow you up and kill the black maiming hands of your reality.
A SERIES OF DREAMS || j.r
