She goes to heaven on a little row boat I think aloud, the moon twisting through the trees mingling with my mind. You drift along the scheme of things, light dancing out to sea. Sleep comes calling, slipping along the tide. The dream moves so slow, drizzling down your skin. The dream so near to waking that I keep mistaking it for the face of the world. Something is there, just on the other side of memory. Something was said, just before the fall.
Just like that a small fog settles. Just like that the curtain call ensues. A sense of light, the feel of daybreak. All these appetites worn so near to your flesh. Your hip a long slow curve of the sheets. Every sense an impression, stage directions read aloud. That moment where your silhouette leaned into my memory. A halo, an angel, a stranger buried in silt. One slender moment that follows me, heels stitched to some tattered shadow. One slim dream mistaken for the call of all tomorrows.
I think it might be her, waking strange from these rivers of you. I think it could be you, wrapped around some mystery. The flow of your hair, the shift of your thighs. I taste the smoke threaded through this winter, see the clinging glimmer of your eyes. I taste the dust kicked up by the dog, see the clouds tailing your favorite constellation. I think aloud it could be you. Nothing unusual, sometimes I think it could be me too. The moon entangled with my lucky star, faith burning away, sizzling into streaks of lights.
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