A Passing Dream

And if you left on the morning breath

Of the world as it creaked and groaned its way back

To wakefulness would I be bereft

Of the colours of sunrise?

Would I miss the mist of the retreating clouds

Covering your eyes?

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I would hold it against you,

Leaving when my eyes were glued shut by dreams

And soft, gentle impossibilities,

Like I hold the stories of my ancestors

Scribbled on ancient parchment against my bosom,

As it heaves, as I grieve.

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What sort of cowardly soul slithers away from

Starbursts, the celestial bodies dipping their fingers

Into the paint and smudging it in long arcs

Across the canvas, the back of our eyelids?

What fool leaves before the art has even had a chance

To flourish on our tongues?

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The kind of creature to balk at sunrise,

Crow in disappointment as the moon

Bleeds blue light across uncovered scars

Is the same sort to leave lips trembling around words

Whispered in the seconds between today and tomorrow;

The flame that slaughters the moth.

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If you vanished from the swirling, delicate space

Nestled tightly between nightmare and reality,

And left me empty come morning,

I would fill your vacancy with carnival mirrors

And rose thorns

So that you could never think to trespass again.

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