I still dream of us, even when I don’t want to, the remorse
gazing out at me at night, when I am alone, when I am desperate to pump it all
out to keep from exploding.
After this long, you’d assume I would cease to percolate,
when in fact I boil all the more, even more than I did before, dream upon dream
I wake from to find not real, reeling from the impact of imagined hips engaged,
pounding like jackhammers, digging as deep as I dare to go.
I still dream of it, even when I know I ought not to, the
attraction of heavenly bodies still as potent as the Big Bang.
At what point does the universe cease to expand, contracting
only when I come back to consciousness. It only grows in my sleep, hard as steel,
prodding at the soft boundaries of the pliable universe, which groans with the
banging of bedposts on the cheap motel walls, the desperate cries I hear
turning out to be my own, always wanting more.
I dream of it when I know I shouldn’t. I just can’t stop.
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