Sleep Cycle

I shipwrecked again

on your glass shores,

repeating words,

looking for orchids.

The night was grand

and we flared up in goose fever,

sorting our love like science nomenclature.

For the morning gesture,

we must go through this.

Crush the flowerbeds flat,

bleed our feet out,

catch the gleam of our youth

flecked on the carpet.

Do you think what I'm thinking? If this hand on your cheek

was the dream of an old love

wearing my skin,

waiting to join you. If we never knew the sea.

Do you fear it too? That we can be untraceable in the figment of this beach. In the blinding phosphorescence of our loneliness,

where the waves sing,

and we hum along with them.

We are made of this. Tricks of an aftermath lifted above us by a midnight breath,

gone in the morning when our mouths meet.

Then there I am again in the corner of your eye,

juggling pearls,

waving excitedly.