2: Perhaps I’ll see you in the morning, - my dear?

chroniclesofachronicdreamer:

Down down the street
strewn and littered
apocalyptically
we stroll comfortably,
crawl like ants across
a car grown in by weeds
and plants. You smile
from the roof, scabbed over,
rust bled green with moss.
I drop the two pillows
beneath my arms to join you:
one thick – because you like to sleep
(on your side)
one thin – me on my stomach…
when you continue
down down the road
I’m momentarily
caught in conversation with a
neighborly traveler, I have to rush
to catch your fading
visage (the sun is so so bright)
but I forgot the pillows…

two blocks of searching
and the pavement dissolves to sand.
the beach is full, from the silt
limbs out of context
protrude weed-like,
listless in the breeze.
This apocryphal garden spread
beneath me, a pillow-armed
scout atop rock outcropping
against the tide surging,
urges the slow-wade back –
it won’t stop rising now,
the recurring dream-like doom
of waves waves overtaking
and keeping me from you.
where did you go…
the ocean stretches to envelop
all the world in its wake
(when will I awake)

next to you,
but you don’t seem to recall
who I am.
Crests of deluge pound drunkenly
on the windows of our temporary
asylum –
desperation now,
words fettered turning wild –
only hope to reignite
the fire