Hypersomnia

Within the folds of your eyelids, you spit sand and stories

Like a cat in Schrödinger’s box, I am, and I am not

Needing my furless paws into the workings of your perfectly painted porcelain pane

Pulling at the possibilities

Printing my fingers behind your earlobes

The place that I only speak to you in cryptic calls and kisses

A wanderlusting whistle between my teeth

An atlas to your nerve never ending circular calm

Encompassing an auroral ambiance of nude bell curved hips and legs

I hold only one thing through my cadence claimed conquest

Cradling this memory of a dream

As my mind slips under the sea of solemn and solitude

I don’t feel as if I’ve ever been more awake than under your sandy spelled slumber

When morning rises like the bottoms of bread

Slap the snooze and let me love you instead

 

Joshua Tool – 10/28/12

 

 

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