Question of a Dream

In the morning,

Just about six or so,

There Is a light in the sky.

Never a sun to give it,

But it’s there.

And it always finds its way,

Somehow,

Past the curtains I drew tight

The night before.

While I lay there,

Half asleep,

This anomaly breaks in.

Here, I can feel you.

Beneath the blankets and behind me,

I can feel your depression,

Sinking in the sheets of the bed.

I can feel our fingers,

Playing with the shadows on my back.

I can feel your nails,

Tracing along my skin.

Vainly, I hold the smile you put there.

So I turn,

To whisper good mornings,

And whatever else,

To your pale eyes.

But you’re not there.

So I find myself on my back,

Staring at the ceiling.

And, if I close my eyes,

I can still feel you.

I can feel your ear,

Pressed against my chest,

Chasing for my heart beat.

I can feel your lips,

Idly brushing against my neck.

But just almost.

So I lay there,

Watching ripples of some light commodity

Break upon the ceiling’s surface.

*written in 2008