Doesn’t it seem like the moment
you begin dreaming in vivid color,
it all falls apart? And now it’s just
something else to wash out of your
sheets and your favorite shirt.
The thoughts that used to keep you
buoyant on the most ordinary
days become the compunction that
you’re damned to drag around
with every step.
For a moment,
you really thought you had it–
but if you could tell yourself the
truth for a second, you’d admit you
always felt its itchy impermanence.
Nevertheless, your belly fills with the dread
of one or a hundred actions you could
have taken, as if it could still be
salvaged with enough overthought.
As if you don’t know it never could.
But it’s so exhausting to think
about dreaming again, about wading
into a brand new garden
to pluck a stranger’s roses.