The other dreams I have of you
are a fantasy, fallacy, farce,
figment of my imagination –
unrealistic, idealistic, optimistic.
But this is different. I’m alive,
kicking. A force of nature. A tornado
whips around my ankles. I look up –
you’re at its centre. The maelstrom
strangely downwind, out of reach.
Lightning – electrifying my soul, veins popping,
arteries exploding. I’m alive. And well
protected in your embrace. Thunder claps in the distance,
Echoing in the distance, dying a hero’s death. I’m face-to-face.
Tete-a-tete. I can read her thoughts, her brainstorms, her thought-showers drench my face.
It’s sodden, wet with your kisses. I’m cold,
you’re cold. Face of an angel, heart of a shroud, sucking my very existence away.
Sucking into the swirling vortex of memories, happy and melancholy.
Of my soul, your soul, your hands, my face, your lips, mine turning away...
It’s a different dream. Your dream. Your nightmare.
You squirm under the sheets next to me. Your nightmare. Dead
Or alive?
