i’m afraid of the poem in you—
not as nightmares do, but simply
because i wake from you with beads
of sweat in a gush down my forehead,
warm and worried and unaware where
you are or where you’ve been and
i’ve never been so out of control;
disorder and change make me nervous,
but you alter me each time whether in
thought or in kisses, between dialogue
that weave in and out of a dream…
and is it a dream? this you and me? or is
it real? and i don’t know which i
prefer more because i’ve grown so
attached and loose breath altogether…
i don’t know how to promise forever


About mr gahon

poet... writer... culinarian... i like to work with food that appeals to the senses, write words that taste even better View all posts by mr gahon

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