They whisper to you, discretely in the darkness
Slithering through your subconscious like the foreplay of wind
Before a spring storm
Dripping into your hopes and fears and desperate desires
Tainting them with their frail promises
And counterfeit secrets.
The quiet fingers of pins and needles brushing along your bare body
Are remnants of them digging,
Digging into your gooseflesh skin
Not caring to hear you scream.


What if someday
You could reach out to those dreams
That turn your pure kaleidoscope vision
Into black insecurity every morning?
What if you were tall enough to grasp them
Without jumping desperately, foolishly
And strong enough to support them
Without bending and bleeding?
What if you were willing enough
To give yourself in to them
And brave enough not to cry
When you failed?


For now,
Your fingers must weave through their dirty, illusive smoke
Which curls around your hand
Swearing to embrace the intangible part of your stomach that wakes up
Empty and sick,
Tormented over the feeling that if you speak too loudly
The dreams will shatter.


The art of deception that passes invisibly
Under the cracks of your locked door while you sleep
Drags behind it you, yourself,
Unspoken, and waiting to be discovered.
But the insincerity of promises
That are already too broken to be real
Hands you the knowledge that trust is naïve.
But you are hopeful enough to refuse it.