Spoon

I am already dreaming.  Sneaking extra chances, worlds less collided than conspiring.  I know you naked.  It feels like theft.  I only know you naked.  So late, my words are bleeding paper, meaning you can’t follow one from another without leading into the rest.  

So ok.  If the crescent is the universal symbol for sleep, we’ve totally got this thing.  But if circles are the shape of a day, I wish you’d close those eyes.  I imagine the what was sometimes space and now is just spilled limbs.  The spell is your long face.  

The farness of its lips.  And the fuzz of its former shape.  The eyes are slipping and it might be clear, sharply seen, if it weren’t so even.  Even so

I only know this 

you 

I am dreaming.

My bed is mine; my mind is bad 

and slowly still forgetting.