a conversation with my dream self

I.

I saw myself in him, the subtle wrinkles

set in a brow that's done cheap labor

for big dollars this whole time.

I was sleeping and he was awake,

and whatever tunnel we came through

must have been opened for this reason.

he looked at me fervently as if waiting

for anything but an explanation.

so I opened my mouth in a way

that seemed to put the corners

of the cosmos on my inner cheeks.

II.

will death find you too? or are we

more like an oncoming of spring

bare trees and all? you should know,

you are like the spare change

I never get to cash in, or the dirty snow

by a storm drain on 34th. you resemble

everything I could never find the use for,

and are strangely ephemeral. you are

a band-aid that I rip off in the morn.

if you only knew what pain I endure

removing your adhesive, you would

have found me long ago. but you're

thrown in the trash along with the

plastic knives and I fear he context

is too scrambled for me to discern

which side is better for my image.

III.

it's not over when the sky turns

white in anonymity. it's not over

when your fingers become

tiny missiles pointed at the stars.

did you know that we already know

each other? I still watch over you

when the sun hits your blinds

in the morn, and tell you stories

as you drift towards me. you are

a dwarf star holding the pain

inward and when the time comes,

will burst into documented identity

where only your surroundings matter.

for now, take them as they are,

'cause they will do anything for you

as long as you're there for them.