Sleep practicum

You promised once,  
to teach me how to sleep,  
that deep stuff where  
dreams are made.  
 
I told you it’s impossible,  
because I dream awake,  
and you are proof.  
 
You sent me the  
course material in advance.  
The syllabus was  
rigorous,  
the final  
seemed to include  
fucking like wild dogs  
after you washed my  
body with lust, and  
then encouraged me to  
repeat the process in  
a practical exam.  
 
I admit  
it sounds like a  
stimulating subject,  
and I’ve signed  
up to sit in the front row.  
 
Perhaps you can teach me  
how to  
sleep,  
on twisted sheets and
sweaty bruised bodies,

but I’ll still dream awake,  
and you, my love, will still be proof.