It was standing on your balcony
as I exhaled into the frigid night air
with your arms around my waist
nibbling sweetly upon my neck
that you first confessed to me,
"I dream in binary."
Those repetitions of patterns
had captured your soul
so I flicked my cigarette, and spun
to meet your lips with my own,
even if it hurt my tippy-toes.
And later buried in blankets
destroying a perfectly made-bed,
I couldn't keep my eyes off of you
imagining everything in your head.
As you quietly mutter, in utero
"Two," I whisper into your ear
and silently shed blankets from skin,
walking silently out to the night air.
I'm just a simple poet, nothing more
who cannot understand the simple
complexity of binary dreams.