dreams

I've been dreaming your dreams 

for you 

for a while now.

I've been storing them,

holding them, 

counting them, 

like coins in the palms of a homeless man, 

turning them over and over again.

you told me that you had written something new, 

that you had found your pen, miraculously, 

after having lost it. 

I was afraid, you know, 

you made a boulder out of my throat

with the worry of keeping all those dreams of yours

night after night.

I feared the world was burning itself to the ground

outside your bedroom window

and you thought nothing 

of turning over to sleep some more. 

I know darkness too, hun, 

how sometimes some things don't feel right, 

a wrongness you can't quite explain, 

like waking up in the middle of the night

to bask in the light of the sun,

or walking on the sky, suspended, 

upside down.