lucid dreams

I always remember my dreams

like they’re shattered glass

lying in a heaping pile

at the edge of my bed

swirling with ghosts.

 

Sometimes I pick one of the fragmented pieces up

and fall into eyes so ocean blue,

like waves crashing over my head

spinning my hair into a salty cyclone,

aching for air in my lungs.

 

In this dream we are swimming in the ocean,

stuck between the sand and a current.

You duck under the crystal water and grab my feet.

I shriek with laughter and feigned irritation,

but really I would take your hands on me any way I could get them.

You kiss me and your lips taste of salt and madness.

Teenagers are such a dangerous commodity-

so beautiful and seemingly invisible.

The dream is vivid, yet faded like an old photograph.

I feel how I felt:

like the sun set for you.

 

The piece of glass pricks my finger.

I drop it on the ground.

Blood drips like ink on letters I wrote for you.

It hurts.

 

       I pick up another.

 

In this dream I catapult into arms like boulders

they catch my weight but they won’t hold me steady.

This one is all new, butterflies and brick walls.

It’s cold outside, winter is coming

but I lick ice-cream off my lips like a little kid

as you watch in curiosity-

I amuse you.

I meet your gaze in an attempt to think your thoughts.

I’m always trying to read minds,

you won’t get hurt if you know

everything.

 

       Or maybe you will.

 

I lie this piece in the pile gently.

This one stings.

 

I don’t want to sleepwalk in another one

of these twisted spaces between a dream and my memory.

The shattered edges keep pricking the tips of my fingers

and every time I pick up another piece

I have to look at my reflection

in the broken glass.

 

I reach for another tentatively,

maybe I like the bite of the sharp edge

I think to myself.

 

This one has smoother sides

all soft skin and silk sheets.

Words tumbling out like whispered screams

from all of the wine being poured into glasses.

I always talk too much

for the fear of not being heard.

Or maybe its because if I’m the one saying things

than I’m the one in control.

So I trust you for no reason at all aside from the fact

that there’s something in your eyes

that forces air into my lungs

and I realize that I haven’t been breathing

since before my head got stuck under the current.