She’s walking away
Down the street,
No cars go by,
How early is the morning?
There are doves behind her,
Disguised in grey,
When she turns to look
She’ll see them fly away.
Who is this stranger
In her familiar face?
Take my hand,
Climb the stairs
Off the street,
The air is safe to tread
Or do you find,
When waking up,
That you’ve been standing still?
When did this dream begin?
There’s a man waiting at a café,
He’s waiting just for me,
Who knows if he’d still be waiting
If the ending wasn’t near.
I knew with heavy certainty
He won’t forgive me one more disappointment
Even though the sky’s ripped open.
Why can’t I get there faster?
Waiting on an escalator I see him walk away,
He’s only left an empty cup and change to pay the bill.
I am left behind.
There was always an air of melancholy
Clinging to her edges,
Like crystallized tears and sea-foam
Or a thousand tiny, flawed diamonds.
And the way she appeared under a street lamp
On that foggy, foggy night,
With her lips closed around secrets
And her eyes fixed so steady and pure,
Sometimes you think she’s not of this world.
“Are you a ghost,” you ask
She never answers.
Now there are holes where the evening sky’s worn through,
The weft fraying into patches of bright nebulae,
Drifts of tree tops from other worlds float by,
Reality has been warped,
Like metal in extreme heat
And time is more like honey than water,
Running faster when warmed.
We’ve been talking and we’ve been talking –
I never knew we could say so many things –
About that moment with the light from the window on your hand
When it was real and I ran,
About bitter laughter and savory time,
About that first, that only night of poetry,
About all those pretty days with the sun and rain,
About all the years of tumble and tumult
Where we’ve been all and nothing and everything in between.
We’ve been talking about the history of the world.
There are balls of white like flame pouring down the sky
Like reincarnation and fireworks
And the sky looks so blue against all that bright,
The falling of all stars born.
In the last moment before the last moment
We lean together
This is where the dream ends.
She’s standing on the sidewalk,
Right beside you,
Half belonging to starlight.
*some dreams you whish you'd nevr had once you wake up, so you write poetry about it. definitions: Weft- weaving term, as in warp and weft, look it up, Nebulae- nebula in plural form, this is not a typo. I'm not sure if I'm putting this poem in the right section, tell if I got it wrong.