dreams, and how they are never complete

i fell asleep with the window open, my futon pushed up to the wall beneath it.

i wrapped myself up in my curtains, much like the canopy that hung over my bed during my childhood.

jackson was michelangelo, and i his mermaid princess, hidden away from all the monsters that he would fight off.
i think i have always loved him.

i let the cold rain fall soft upon my cheeks, listened the hollow sound of the rain smacking against the windowsill as the thunder shook the wall i lay against. i fell asleep to the sound of my own voice;
if i fell,
blackbird,
green finch and linnet bird,
you say,
pen and notebook.

i must admit, singing oneself to sleep is much easier than crying.
it was probably the most peace i have ever felt.




i woke up the the sound of a car crash, six uneven trills on a car horn, the squeal of useless brakes, and then the most sickening crash of metal.

no matter the dream one is emerged in, reality always has to find its way back in,
the sharp end of its wedge always an unwelcome surprise.