The Dream

I dreamt of you last night,
soft and confused,
until my sheets knotted in remembrance of you
and I woke with your name,
like a kiss, on my lips.

I’ve been drunk ever since.

It’s been years,
but every moment that passed between us
hangs like cobwebs against my skin.

We used to sit beneath the same sky,
the same longing burning in our lungs.

If there is some way,
to break through the silent time between us,
make your way back to me and let me know

because I still anchor myself on this need for you
and wonder if the infatuation clinging like dew
to every other lover is some reflection of you.

My nights still dream of your taste
and how your skin would feel
brandished against my own.

There will always be a piece of me
trying to catch your eye,
but your lips are the only closure I need.

I guess I’m trying to tell you
that I would make war with you all over again
just to show you how sweet defeat can taste

and that I know there are stages to moving on.
I just don’t want to know what they are.

© Keighley Perkins


About handshedown

Keighley Perkins is a Cardiff-based poet whose influences include Anis Mojgani, Selima Hill and Richard Brautigan. Her work has previously been published in "Acumen", "Elbow Room", "Erbacce", "Fire", "Northwind" and "Obsessed with Pipework". She can also be found online on Twitter at @handshedown. View all posts by handshedown

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