barbed dreams

Since the Gemini full moon last Friday, when so many corner shards met to create a glass vase we then let shatter, I've been waking with a head of taunted dreams. I never remember my dreams and now all of a sudden, in the black of night, each one presents itself to me clear as day. Under white down blankets my legs are folded bare and I can hear the wind rip it's underbelly on the top ridge of the canyon while I string each nightmare together on a barbed wire I wear around my neck. Once there was him being pulled out of bed and arrested, another an image of blood on my wrists and the faint knowledge that it wasn't mine; the hungry question of whose it might be. This morning I woke with the faint echoes of a panting dog from another world. But here's the one weekend dream that has stuck with me, just under my ribcage:  It is last call and there is one last bottle of IPA and I can't find you, though I feel myself circling empty haunted rooms with the intention of sharing it with you. I woke with this overwhelming thought that even when I fall asleep tormented by you, twisting in my sheets, my dreaming self betrays me. She tries to comfort you, plots journeys through bar rooms to rid you of your thirst, holds ice cold bottles dripping at the neck in a fervent want to serve you. Like me she wears white to reflect a purity, but then blows soothing air kisses that smack where my jawline meets the dreamworld.  In my waking life I have cut the cords where you once drew comfort from me, but this lovely troubled dream girl, still only seeks to provide for you, cup your chin and smile to melt your heart. She desires to nurture what's incumbent to my nature.