When I have dreams,
They are filled with oil
Paintings, an array of
Colors forming Victorian houses,
Gardens thicker than my
Hair when it's pulled back,
All the beauties of
Life painted on the canvas of my
Closed eyelids.
All these houses and fields of
Grass will sometimes
Flutter the paintings will fold,
Old wooden walls will crack and
Form the bridge of
A nose,
Windowpanes change to glossy
Cheeks, ripe tomatoes from my gardens
Mashed into the auburn palette
Of your hair and there
You are.
All of a sudden while I
Sleep there is your face,
Formed from houses, flowers and
Beauty. And I can smell the
Scent of your skin, a
Warm type of smell, like
Oak or autumn leaves that have been heated
By a campfire I dream
Of you.
You're so clear,
Lips close enough to trace with
The tip of my nose;
Close enough to
Taste your warmth,
Feel your sweetness under my
Palms but then
Your eyelashes float
Down into grassy patches, the
Bridge of your nose blending into the
Image of a wooden
Wall, against window
Panes instead of cheeks-
A painting.
Of gardens thicker than my
Hair when it's pulled back.
Just as quickly as you
Appeared, you are gone.
But I know, even when
I am dreaming, you're always
There. Hidden,
But there.