Last night I felt open
The plaster ceiling of my bedroom was missing, gaping up at the speckled ink sky
Like lying on the bottom of a jar.
Tucked up to my chin, submerged in night,
with breezes of all moods seeping into and through me,
I thought about you—
(Just you, alone, not
I wondered what swims in your warm liquid thoughts before sleep
I know what’s in mine:
hummed melodies, the afterglow of an orange lamp,
a dense fog of responsibilities and stress,
untimely reminders of horror movies, and a vague longing to be kissed.
There has always been some bubbles of thought for friends and kin, I think,
but for years there has been a place in the back of my head for you.
A place where I imagine what you see in the sleepy blinks before darkness.
I try in vain for a vague but solid certainty—
the mere color of your nascent dreams, or
the texture of them.
I guess a golden hazel hue
But if I told you, would you even realize that it’s the color that rings your pupils?
Even with my best speculation,
Your mind remains frayed static
that eventually aches my eyes and ears.
I can only wish that you occasionally see me (or, more realistically, a likeness of me)
Just as a likeness of you
Lurks in the dimming haze before oblivion.