Vision

There are pieces of dreams in my teeth,

Leftover kernels of lives missed.

A sprinkling of this, a dash of that,

And I can taste who I wanted to be

With any number of people

But there is no me between my molars.

.

There is no self-identity at all,

Just clean mirrors reflecting the dream

Of becoming a piece of someone's future.

But I don't know now who I was.

What did I want? To be loved.

What did I dream of? To be noticed.

.

I'm sitting in a room, alone,

With lights I bought because I could see,

In my overactive imagination,

How much you would love their glow.

But I can't see my desk at all

Or any of the writing on the walls.

.

Yet, I can taste the cocktail of souls

I dreamt of loving me in their arms

Fermenting between my teeth,

Turning into something nearly rotten,

Bordering on it but not quite there.

I can taste my imagination.

.

It's sweet.

The kind of thing to get me drunk

And make me taste the regrets

Of dreaming like this in the morning.

It's like drinking rainwater

Fresh out of a turbulent sky.

.

And, of course, I can only imagine

That you would like this too.

You'd want this recipe scratched

Onto some coffee-stained post-it

So you could stick it to your desk

And feel the love I'll never have.