In my dream
His skin was the color of a pale shell’s curl
He seemed to be, dead
He was an apple tree;
a rusted tin man.
It was a strange nocturne—
In my dream
His cinnamon eyes
had lost their gleam,
between murky lids.
My fingers, fair long petals,
moved faintly to his lips
He would not speak to me
So I folded into his silence
And he took me in his lucid arms
He clung to me
And I held him,
with the fragility of sugar.
He was long dead
But I, being the selfish creature I am,
stood in his arms,
a cradle of ivory stone.
I pressed myself into his hard body
He understood I was alone
And we flowered—
in my dream.