-press-
in your dreams he is made of these
small, fine bubbles made by the crashing waves.
you put your hand through his outside
to see what he can hold,
and it startles you when your digits whisk
effortlessly through to another side.
then there is a noise, almost an afterthought,
breaking through the spaces left
after your simple test;
you tried to describe it later as not really a song,
because this noise has no concentrate,
and it immediately takes up your whole world
like no music could.
you only wish you had a moment to lay down
before you woke up and really soaked in
whatever whimsy blew up the night,
because you could have sworn
that in the moment you had the chance to listen,
his wistful airs began.
Post a Comment