what of traveling.throwaways

over London,
i am sleeping in dreams of soft paper
scrawled with messages of pissed off and thoughtful;
the moon in my window is shy of my eyesight.
he trembles beside the windowpane,
awaiting permission to enter–
a vampire the way i like vampires least: asking for things,
apologizing for things.

over Rotterdam,
i am sleeping in dreams of wet paper
stained with remnants of i hate you for five minutes
and five coffees attempting to prod the writer awake;
they failed, but his pages took flight on the wind
and now they’ll scent the air with their poignance,
and make it metallic.

over here,
under roofs unsteady, an attic I’ve never seen
and only remember by the ladder in the driveway-
i am sleeping in dreams of torn paper strewn across carpet
long scarred by candle wax,
various evidences of insomniac artistry.

what stories remain from these pages,
what histories reside,

i may never know;

but i will wake restless and fill several more
with my ponderings thereof


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