Dreams
This might not be a poem. I do not know what it is that is that a poem makes,
but it will have love, this one - this one that I'm making. And love...
Two swans with their long necks intertwined and a ring
I'd like to put on your finger sum' day. Hm, and also that song which reminds me
That you are not here and that makes me ask "Maybe I love you."
Or maybe it's "Baby, I love you." Let us begin with a question,
What if dreams are the glimpses of the other lives that we are living
In those meta-universes and elseworlds whose existence we've only pondered?
What does it matter? what if I say that I've dreamt of us together.
And to be quite blunt, I was sure I was pleased, and you seemed quite content.
I held your hand, or rather we've held each other.
"Fingers lodged like branches in the river" and it was no burden. The burden is in waking up.
I wake up and that song plays on the radio, and you are not with me.
But "Baby, I love you." I wonder if you've dreamt of us two...
too...
Wouldn't it be a bother if dreams were more than dreams and What we've seen
would be just as real as cake. I can be the eggs and you be the flower.
We're all we need to be sleeping awake.
Then I remember that song.
It tells me you're not here.
It plays on and on as I rise from my bed,
What does it mean to wake up alone,
to face the fear that you've been dreaming all on your own?
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