tomorrows

the first dream of the year brings you to my door. he’s there with you to talk to my father. there’s a book of prose he’s written with portraits he’s taken of you: black and white and from a life that isn’t mine. the pages are razors to my skin. I call your name and catch your gaze but nothing more. you are with him and he says you need to leave. I protest with questions you can’t answer and he’s pulling you away into a bus on the street. the clouds hang low. the wheels are turning and I chase by your window til I can’t keep up. you look away like I was never there. he drives you off into tomorrows we will never share.

morning comes and all is still. we are nothing but the same as before. there is no poetry. I cannot write myself into a story I can sell. the only way out is over everything I thought and who I am. there is a choice and too much for me to change. count the shards of shattered mirror on the bathroom floor and sweep them to the curb. listen to someone else. spare your pulse for something more. wake up and move again.