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.
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