When I turn 17
I cannot remember
anything of dreams.
I allow the strangest wire
of a smile
to climb into my bed
and whisper until I fall
asleep,
his arms twisting
knots.
His words fall
like a ship blown
across my tongue.
I call him the Thief Of Slumber.
I wake up
and I know what it’s like to exist.
I am a tumor.
I have been discovered.
I wake up
and I am 19 years old.
The strangest rail of a boy
is curled into my neck
and he tells me all of his dreams.
His eyes are so dark
he forgets everything he sees.
I take his shoulders as my own
and I wait.
I believe I will be discovered.
I wake up
and my heart is a moth.
I have forgotten the sound
of London before dark.
The street lamp is out.
There is only the clutter of buses rushing
home
and the rain
stopping.
You are the earliest dream-
a faint slippage between
dawn and the warmth of this bed.
I cannot remember your face.
I can hardly describe the familiarity,
the possibility burning on my tongue-
You are mine,
if only for the simplest of moments,
and within that second is a lifetime
I am holding you to-
I am whispering
you are mine
I swear
you are mine
I swear
you are mine
and
I wake up.
*Originally published in my 2010 book A History Of Silence currently out of print*
