I am a dream.
I sit on the edge of your bed,
Where the air is orange and cold,
Soft and dark on edges,
A cave. I close my eyes
And feel like champagne.
When you wake, you will forget,
Over and over again.

I am a dust-lined box on a basement shelf,
A candle that burns through the night,
The name of the quiet girl in the back row
Who looks down.
On the tip of your tongue.

I am the sunglasses atop your head,
Blackened toast,
The dishes from breakfast,
Your best friend’s brother’s birthday.

I am all these things
Strung, a shrunken sweater
That’s tumbled over on itself too long.
I cannot be returned, nor saved, yet
Here I am, your reoccurring dream.
Here I am, here I am.