more than the dreaming, i miss the dream:
the physicality of an idea,
once enabled by action, is impossible to deny.
as inevitable as stomach bile
the dream of you retched out of my mouth,
bypassing the heart entirely.
in tasting iron,
i realized that the tip of my tongue
had no words but also no dream,
that what was dredged up
by your anger and your atmosphere
was not the dream
but only the aborted act of dreaming.
so i seek still the dream,
which was lost somewhere along the way:
i am only tinder
for its bright flame,
a brittle branch for kindling.