Prettier Asleep

I cannot stop dreaming.

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There are uncharted icebergs in the blue oceans swirling

Around pits, fathomless and dark, of cold curiosity.

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To call them eyes is too mortal.

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He is of the dust that descends from Olympus,

Scatters heartbeats and cosmic desires on the wind.

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I hear his secrets in my sleep.

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They are warm-blooded things with feral wants,

Mapped out along the aristocratic lines of his own yearning.

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There is no finishing.

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I am lost in the labyrinth of flickering images and oil paintings,

The deep navy sky splitting open into ribbons of green.

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He is the dream itself.

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This is not an infatuation but a way to taste a heartbeat.

I want to press lips to stone and taste the salt of the earth.

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I want to taste his thoughts.

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Those thoughts in your mind must be sweet for how long

They have been fermenting, gaining strength, ripening.

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Undress yourself for me.

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Let me peer through the violent storms covering his eyes

Into the glacial tundra stretching the length of his soul.

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He isn't kind.

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And kindness is overrated in a world of absolute hunger

Where starvation occurs more rapidly than sorrow.

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It's time for sleep again.

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The dreams are more tolerable when my eyes are shut.

Fantasy is always prettier against a backdrop of black.

.

And he's prettier dreaming.