dreaming these dreams

I walked up the door,
shut the stairs,
said my shoes,
took off my prayers,
turned off my bed,
got into the light,
all because
you kissed me goodnight.

Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.

People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.

I wrote a poem about it, and then threw it away, because that’s the last thing I need right now: More words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.