Dream

The miscellany of my dream,

The bits of features, eyes,

Lips, floating in an aberrant

Cloud, cling to me still

In the morning. It is dense,

A fog that swallows the

Reality of wakefulness.

I think about it again

And again, the dream--

a disjointed mess

Of a thing with the gravity

Of a dying star. I see faces

Familiar in a way that

Draw my heart sharply

To the surface, like pulling

Strings away from a fraying

Rug. Is it you, though,

 in this dream, the weight

of you, that hangs over

me, separating you like oil

From the sea of others?

You, who whittle the

fragments of sentiment

into sharp knives that

incise the shell of my sleep?

I  am forced to wear your

memory like a winter coat

in the middle of August.