12/21/10
My dreams are made of more than memory
or fantasy.
They have flesh and blood,
a skeleton of human touch.
My dreams are nightmares because
no matter the mood, they always breath real air.
Fiction shouldn't be allowed oxygen.
Makes it too much like skin,
like yours against mine in the attic's summer swelter
or fall's blast of painful surrender.
My dreams are made of more than me
sculpted with pain, love, and history.
And honestly?
Its scary as shit.
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