but you vanish in the morning light, tell me how can that be?Mature

We etch novels into the backs of our eyelids,
chant the lines until they disintegrate on our tongues
when the sunlight finally peeks through our curtains.
I read somewhere once that you can’t read something in a dream,
but I remember charting your body like constellations and
writing poetry with my fingertip on the canvas of your back
and I remember every notch on your spine and
the promises I left there.

The End

7 comments about this poem Feed