Monday, January 16, 2006

Dreaming Of The Fountain Of Youth

I'll sit cross-legged
and smile
at your closed eyes, imagining
myself in pigtails
in your dreams
and dancing
around, wearing a tiny, carefree dress.
We'll throw autumn leaves
at each other like elementary
school kids. I'll kick you
in the shins and pull
on your hair because
I like you
(I DO NOT).

May I have this dance with your brown eyes?
We can waltz to your steady breath,
and keep time with your heartbeat
You'll be leading.

Then I'll spot our reflections, tangled in
the wriggling vines and occasional blossoms
of the fading yellow(ed)
wallpaper in your room,
in a house so old and so clean that the only
things collecting dust are your parents.

Even when sleepy, I'm like a
five-year old with you.

I confess, then:
sometimes I almost wish that I could
control your dreams on a mixing board;
twisting and turning
levers and knobs to make this
daydream of mine so real that you'd awaken
with my fuzzy pink-and-purple hairtie
(the one that matched the tutu)
in your hand.

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