Occasionally I will pantomime my dreams, accidentally,
into a mistaken reality wherein I am a dreamer
but more than that I am me, undeniably so. My hands are
spurned, driven mad, up and down as they burn scribbled
charades into the air and then suspend them; as if
my actions alone brought them to life. Seconds pass
and they live half-lives with no voice, rather my breathing beats
air into their lack of physical being and provides them with heart.
Heart enough for millions from one barely enough for me and it
will forever beat, until my real charade is given voice by another.
They play games, your fantasies,
trampled upon by princely feet
pretending to sweep you up, away,
gilding nectar words that melt, sweetly
congruent to the delicate embroidery
that designs dreams of independent achievement.
Static overtones provide cacophonous shelter for your reason, each time I would dial in your melody; yet I, eventually drop the phone just so I can watch it mimic your slipping away, hoping that gravity would halt and you would stay near me relative to the same way you once did, and only my phone survived unbroken from that titan fall.
The stolen sunlight trickles down
simmering on our placid faces
wisps releasing silent steam hang
our time together, frozen as
dew on the pine trees whose
slender fingers tie the our cords
into a hang-mans knot, criminal only
of stealing days punishable by being
noosed for the rest of the night.