Poetry | Journal

She’s talking in her sleep again.

Around 4 am every night

I get up to close the blinds

while she talks to the wall

about the microwave.

I watch patterns behind my eyelids

dance a ballet composed in stress,

and I listen to conversations between characters

that question my own fabric of existence,

and the fabric of my pillow case.

Smooth, cool, a few days overdue for a wash,

and she reminds me the jello belongs in the freezer.

The microwave begins to pop.

She rolls over, I roll too,

And she asks me if I ever feel the taste of the color blue.

She says that most nights, the stars pull her away.

The city lights tease her tongue

while her mind sits atop buildings

and watches police lights play hide and seek

with her future.

The clock burns shrink-wrap over my eyes

and I wonder if my dreams will ever carry me

as far away as she is tonight.

The television timer cuts cold

and she asks if it’s in our room.

I can’t help

        but wonder if it’s me she’s talking to.