Lucid
My face.
Lucid.
The dream state where envelopes are unsealed without a sound.
A hard hat on me, nothing strikes me.
Reaching under the sink because I can feel my ghost arms.
Then I bounced around.
Lucid and curious.
Being.
But I’m sleeping as brushstrokes are my dreams.
Faded.
My face.
Honestly,
I left the bedroom door open that night.
Woke up to a portal whisper.
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