One word to describe waking to the screams
of someone else’s nightmares – helplessness.
I stop at your wall of broken-dish dreams
sunburnt bricks still warm with your bitterness.
My mouth is stitched shut – ground glass wired
with guilt and frustration – serrating my own
palms on your sandpaper memories – tired.
I have never been further from home.
My hand suspended in summer starlight
between your voice caught in butterfly nets
of memories and this silent July night –
the city sleeps, guarded by dying comets.
And I wait – quietly wishing for the sun
and someone with the strength to wake you up.
Die sonnet form. Die.