Dawn (I)

I guess I’ll let myself sleep
In the warmth of a memory
Pretending to be fine,
Pretending to be dying.
Languid and weak came
From my black maple furniture,
The fading perfume, killing
The light, my thoughts,
Though in the furthest dream
I saw the sea and the cliffs, again,
The fireflies through the bushes,
The music of daydreams.
T’was an instant of two lives,
Waking up all at once,
Freezing hands,
Those hands in your portrait
And what am I left with, at dawn?
A moat of sands,
A flightless paper plane,
A Monet on a napkin.