assists in opening my eyes,
I recount dreams like memories,
because, aside from poems and a few photos,
they are the only things I have
from a love lost long ago
to time and my melted mistakes.
nostalgia burns blue,
like all tomorrow's parties,
like morning breath in a Brooklyn basement,
where the world I once had
is so close yet so far,
and my bare feet can't run
in either direction – future or past.
I am getting better
at slumber visitation rights,
curating nightly visions
to see certain creatures –
good, gold and gone forever –
but back in my brain, dancing salsa
and searching for another name for dreams.