last night's all night with you was real, though you felt it not and I woke at the thought that you may not know me or even care if you did. I closed my eyes to explore the sealed vision, as dream's indian-giving ways pushed me straight to sunlight. but I'm a fighter.
I walked through your kitchen. you said important things in the other room and I made you a sandwich.
dreams bore everyone but the dreamer. they dull fall's windy chill. they tepid the chocolate tongue and fail the written test. unless
you are the dreamer. then, the message pulses as blood through your wrist, burns as a shot of patrón to ignore a knotted jute union, flickers as closed eyes holding blue face breath to see if it can either bury itself in the mud or just fucking finally come true.
