Apartment 159 - Sleeping with Past Perfection

Years ago the nightmares were so commonplace

they never waited for me to close my eyes;

it was always the dreams of

being happy that kept me up at night.

I grew up living in the subjunctive -

right on the corner of ‘Maybe If’ and ‘I Hope’ -

so I’ve always been aware that the future

belongs to those who live in the suburbs.

It’s been two years now,

since I woke up next you…

since I opened my eyes inside a dream.

I dreamed of a heart etched in concrete.

Trapped inside I was the A in P+A

but I became jealous because I was not the P instead.

And as always I stood inert, as if handcuffed

in between hating myself and loving the

dreams of myself, wanting to be first but

settling for anything I can get.

Dreams have a way of reminding and

creating something self-aware – a wound that

laughs at itself? – a dividing line,

separating what

was and what could have been.

Nothing more

than a single brush stroke

on my blank flesh. A reminder, definitely,

but also an opening

for blackness to seep from.

You kicked me out and I

left my heart on the doorstep – a

contemporary Trojan horse,

this time doomed to fail.