Dear,
  
   Dream from over there.

And dear,

   I'll dream from right here.

And dear, maybe,
  
   These dreams will one day,
       Maybe one day they will collide.

And dear, after,

   After our dreams intertwine,
        Maybe then we'll make another dream.

Dear, we'll make another dream--

                *together.

I stand, like a ghost, on a crowded street,
Diffusing into the blackened concrete.

Shadows are entwined under flickering light,
Surrounding sounds melt into the night.

To their deaths, the stars cascade from the sky,
And liberate the shadows from my eyes.

In a sea of casualties, I drown,
Like a morning fog, resigned to the ground.

I pale, like a ghost, on a barren street,
A street so hungry it swallows me.

Small windows of opportunity,
creaking cracks of reason,
masked behind shades of indifference.

Like raindrops on windowpanes,
I'll touch one subject once,
briefly, and roll away.

So when the drapes are drawn,
if only for a moment,
you might just miss the rain.

I left you delicate -
dressed in ribcages and heart beats
protrustion leaving baby blues
I never meant to pick you, stem and all.

My idea was to leave you for the fall
aching chill across bones
a broken cage of wigs reeling you in
tethered to the wind.

But, I'll bury snakes in this -
your garden of falters
I never meant to rip you from the stem to leaf
fragile fingers pressed
between teeth.

I left you delicate
my hinges rusted from swinging
dressed in lavender lament -
compliments to your baby blues
patterns for others to see.

I left you delicate,
just as you left me.

Santy comes in clusters;
clover fields of focus infused
with tendrils of marbled lucidity.
Gusts of foibles swirl with normalcy,
entrancing and enchanting and luring

    locks of golden silk within their grasp,
    gripping and slipping on floating clumps
    of what's left of brain matter, spattered
    onto white washed walls of consciousness;

         cleansed.

had we met each other when we were older,
i believe we'd spend the rest of our lives
fighting over the radio station
and playing rock, paper, scissors over who does the dishes
instead of wasting our youth loving frantically and
carelessly
before we even knew what we were doing.

the word 'unfair' spits in my face.

then i think it would be much easier to have those
memories
next to my pillow when i die
then it would be

to leave you behind.