mango thief alive

i shared a dream or two with you tonight,
but i told you nothing of the dreams i have for you.

i would like to hide away with you
between the bookshelves at barnes & noble
where we’d lose ourselves in stories of other places and lives;

i would like to feel the resonating strength of music collecting in my throat
as i hum lullabies to you in midday,
sweeping my fingers across your forehead and your cheek,
watching the lush steepness of your lower lip’s curve
beneath the tip of my finger as it slips, trips and slides toward your chin

i’d like to fall facefirst on a mattress,
felled by rogue pillows clenched in your fists while feathers snowed about us
and scratchy rock music sketched a scene that rich hiphop painted in:
the two of us, laughing, our hair wild as the tribes from whom we must have descended
and unable to catch breath as it races toward the ceiling just as another jumbo size sleep-sack
makes contact with the small of our backs.
i think, too, that i’d like to feed you fat strawberries dipped in cream
so i could wax poetic about how the contrasts in the richness of the berries’ reds
and the cream’ pallor match your own wind and sunlight skin
(it’s like summer in a field of flowers, looking at your face sometimes).
is it too soon, do you think,
to picture splashing soapy water on your shirt
as you come to tickle me while i’m trying to wash the dishes
from the last time you slept over?

i hope not,
because i’m already holding up the camera to capture it,
and you’re standing in just the right light.
don’t move; i might wake up.

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