Winded ★★★★

All night long I've been listening to the sound
of branches falling onto the roof of your house,
and when I go outside
I can feel the wind blowing hard and hot,
pulling at the threads of my hair
like your fingertips sliding over my cheek bones.

The streets are littered with twigs and leaves,
as if everyone had all at once forgotten to wake up,
as if no one had walked these streets in years;
and driving out into a still midnight
there is nothing yet that might tell me otherwise.

The only signs of life are the rhythmic rituals
of the changing traffic lights
and the steady glow of laundromats and convenience stores
mirrored in the inky wet asphalt
their beacons cast downwards
looking so much like towers floating in an endless black.

So I drift along in this lucid dream
waiting for the pinprick that brings me back into reality,
that pops this bubble and brings it down
in soft showers around my shoulders,
like the last remnants of storms
falling down on bare skin,
like feeling the brush of lips
calling me back.

But please
let me sit here awhile longer.

Because in sleep we all are dreaming
and awake I am alone.