I am wrong.
And knowing punishment, I have ordered my dreams in files of
Cannot Have and Will Not Be.
We all look for sleep here,
soothing ourselves to slumber with our hipbone
cradled in our palm.
I am, gently.
So soft am I being that my words
diffuse like smoky breath in the cold.
Transparent so I can take note
of the mistakes in the machinery.
My parts strive for the effortless grace
of movement and gleaming in light.
I am wasting.
And the soft petals of blue night
folded around my memory unfurl to show
moments in which I was not me
and then was perfect instead.
It has disrupted the smooth mechanisms of my thought
slowed the gears of my dreaming.
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