your bedroom window conducts
an early morning synthesis of botany and biology
in the form of birds and bees flitting about their business,
but inside your bedroom there is only stillness–
there is no natural symphony here.
between the vacuum of white cotton sheets
bradycardia reigns supreme: the sluggish thunder of blood
trudging through your veins is the only concert performed this morning.

quiet, eyes closed, you are dreaming to the sounds of your pulse–
white moths like errant whispers on your tongue
chase the taste of white coating kisses
down your throat.

your body is a vessel afloat on white oceans as you sail away.
you wanted to run without moving your legs;
you wanted to move,
to fly,
to get away from here and now you’ve gone Somewhere Else–

back in your bedroom, they’re still waiting for you to come home.


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