Sunday, 2 November 2014


So what if I told you, sometimes,
that you walk in my dreams? That
you float like paper amongst the
cotton-wool trees, that pepper,
the mountains and gentle
streams, as you stretch along banks of bright fire?

And what if you lay, as the flames lick
higher, and tell me all the woes of
your day? Do I reach out my fingers and
trace them away, as the catkins that swing
in my mind?

Do I turn and roll over,
and stiffen and hide,
for all the times I have willed you to stay? For all the
right things
I have not heard you say as the swimming
night becomes intrusive day, and what way
do I find
to give
as you take?
And quiet this yawning soul?

Just to be still,
and to need.

am the one, made of paper,
is all.

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