Motivic Dreams

These thoughts of mine sing serenades, out of key, and silently. Sentences into phrases is what I want. I want the wanting. Your phrases are beautiful but unorganized. Do you even realize? She says you’re too smart for your own good. For a week, I thought you insane. Debussy drifts down minor scales while we sleep. You talked in your dreams, in Schoenberg matrices and chromatic choruses; I tried to wake you up to no avail. You kept me up all night, actually. But, in the morning, I made you breakfast anyway. I didn’t even ask of the woman’s name you spoke of. I cannot curse your unconscious. Your dreams are not mine to judge. Reality has you in my arms, ...or does it?