How easily I
fall
into
slumber
trying to dream of you.
I haven't yet
dreamed
of
you;
maybe I don't have to
meet you
on an imaginary plane
to see you as you are
(or as you will be).
For all the times I crouched by the kitchen sink (begging to be believed),
for all the times I believed, handing over everything to the Freddy Krueger of my waking life,
for all the times I couldn't stitch together my rag-doll heart without weepy British guitar telling my story,
I walk softly here.
I walk softly
as
falling
snow
glides in on Christmas morning.
I walk slowly here.
I walk slowly
as a
speckled
fawn
tip-toes into the open meadow.
I walk silently here.
I walk silently
as an
astounded
ladybug
wanders the contours of a human hand.
Even so,
how easily I find myself
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
into
slumber
trying to dream of you.
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