On the last night of July, I dreamt with you

we were Apollo and Icarus

I wanted to kiss you but my touch burned your hopes

and I didn’t want to wake up.

Even when my heart felt like the Operating game

and my legs had found the pose of an infant in fear

I refused to leave the dream where you had the smile that gave me outbreaks of heat in summer.

I welcomed grief rather than abandoning the stage where I was Romeo who read the truth before losing myself in the madness of a love in a hurry.

I would choose thousands of times to fall into an eternal sleep if there we had a scenario in which I was Hamlet saying to never doubt me and you were Ophelia not falling into despair but knowing that when my revenge ended you would follow me to my grave.

And I dreamed that you loved me, or better yet, you care, so sweet and fragile that I could smell the Narcissus in us and well when I woke up, there were still echoes of your touch on my skin.

 

Ta.