I woke up this morning

and remembered everything;

the wrinkles in the paper

that were wrapped

around the words

like a blanket, keeping

them tightly packed

in between the lines

like yours always were

left to be interpreted by

the darker and slower

parts of the brain.

the clock by the bed reads

noon and my eyes feel

like 3:17 am in the room

with no windows where

we sleep every night.

where the door is always ajar

and the machines never

get turned off, leaving the

hum to be heard from

bathroom to hallway,

hallway to door, door

to bed. Always asking

if this is alright, in the

wake of whats left

of the dream we were having.