last night i
dreamt
of saffron afternoons
and
puddled,
muddled
sunsets dripping
from popcorn
ceilings vaulted
like
a needle through
the inky syrup of
a nyquil cloud,
the bleeding
fountain pen lost
between the cushions
of your lips that
quivered when
your breathing stopped
and stilled
when your eyelids fluttered
and turned to smoke
when i woke.
it feels so silly
now -
nonsensical
absurd -
what even is a saffron afternoon?
but if it was so
far fetched
fantastical
unreal
why did i feel
such dread at
the thought of
leaving it all
behind?
Created: Feb 13, 2015
Document Media