I've dreamt of you thrice this week.
Swim, drown, float, swim, drown, swim.
Swim, float.
Eternally suspended, foetal, warm womb.
Die out every morning on the warm bed. Sun is a gloom rotting mandarin over this horizon.
Sink back into the driver's seat and pretend it's a Spring day back in an eroding land you've been to some past live ago.
Chrysanthemums bland yellow clumps.
The dandelions on your jeans.
Tiredness.
Hollow eye sockets.
Mask.
I never knew what it was when it comes to you.
