of dreams and things.

when words
fall from finger.tips
they spell out- her.
it's always [her]: in broken fragments.
trying to piece together
remnants of world- lived
behind eyelids while the world
sleeps.

to speak of her.

the way only dreams can.
when ink and paper
can't scream emptiness of my chest
when I wake up alone.
and understand that she
may be nothing more than
the bits and pieces
of everything
I could ever want.

so I sleep
each night; hoping to
catch a glimpse
of something real. in between
the movements of the sheets
and the way I scream
emptiness
when I wake
and I wait-
for the day when these eyes
part. fully aware
to see.


her