I've been living a dream.
As if the moment your lips met mine
you pushed me into a deep slumber.
Where the trees are made of sugar
and nothing matters.
I walk on a bed of moss with bare feet
not needing to fear the cuts of unpleasant circumstance
no worries of disease or danger.
I slipped into the glistening pools of your presence
conjuring only ripples that faded before they reached your distant shore.
We were so alive in eachother
but so softly, as an angel's breath,
that none of us noticed.
You are the western winds,
dancing with my hair
leaving nothing but goosebumps.
Intangible dreams of a sacred place
mossy stone archways leading to a silver lit pool.
I asked you if I was dreaming,
once upon a time.
You held me close and said this was real,
discarding my question,
an apple core in the Garden of Eden.
But I couldn't shake it so easily.
The surface too clear,
begging for something to destroy its slumber,
for a western wind to pull it toward some distant shore.
I never told you about my fears.
About a sickly forboding,
an impending falter.
In the beginning, when this newness was too new,
like fingernails cut too short,
it consumed me.
Curling about my fingertips like smoke
staining my skin with it's intangibility.
But now, when your breath is my own
and our heartbeats march in tandem,
your winds blew the grey tendrils far away.
But the scent of confusion still lingers in my hair.
And I still don't know, is this a dream?
Everything seems made of pillars of sand
faltering with the flicker of an eyelid
awakening from some deep slumber.
As if the moment your lips met mine
you pushed me into a deep slumber.
Where the trees are made of sugar
and nothing matters.
I walk on a bed of moss with bare feet
not needing to fear the cuts of unpleasant circumstance
no worries of disease or danger.
I slipped into the glistening pools of your presence
conjuring only ripples that faded before they reached your distant shore.
We were so alive in eachother
but so softly, as an angel's breath,
that none of us noticed.
You are the western winds,
dancing with my hair
leaving nothing but goosebumps.
Intangible dreams of a sacred place
mossy stone archways leading to a silver lit pool.
I asked you if I was dreaming,
once upon a time.
You held me close and said this was real,
discarding my question,
an apple core in the Garden of Eden.
But I couldn't shake it so easily.
The surface too clear,
begging for something to destroy its slumber,
for a western wind to pull it toward some distant shore.
I never told you about my fears.
About a sickly forboding,
an impending falter.
In the beginning, when this newness was too new,
like fingernails cut too short,
it consumed me.
Curling about my fingertips like smoke
staining my skin with it's intangibility.
But now, when your breath is my own
and our heartbeats march in tandem,
your winds blew the grey tendrils far away.
But the scent of confusion still lingers in my hair.
And I still don't know, is this a dream?
Everything seems made of pillars of sand
faltering with the flicker of an eyelid
awakening from some deep slumber.
Comments