Face up to it, Can't do any better

Wake up stiff feeling futile. Limbs snapping back into place, eyes moaning and glazed over fresh from the alleyways of dreamland. Something so pleasantly rendered about that makeshift imitation.

Even nightmares, taut knives of the night, are nice by comparison to this. All hazy and nonexistent, like a brown river eddying around high rise apartments, whole worlds, lives, screaming and puckering in a voiceless halfway sort of hunger that we can just wake up from to go make some toast.

Only the bread’s gone green.

The real world destroys our dreams. My drowsy drive too wet to spark aflame in retreat.
Stomach gnawing, tiny battles lost, you know what I mean, distracted by pictures on the internet.

Seems she’s been to the Caribbean and there is the evidence. Plastered across my newsfeed. She. In the blue bikini, she, out of the blue bikini (still playfully still covered), she, she, she...

So I dive into the archive, until she’s found again. Never-closing eyes, a new sleep of repeated strokes ’n motion. That far away resolve never gratified. Later buried angry, black cloud ashamed, but the struggle continues now and then she is there, she is years ago, there she is, there she is in the garden, there she is with you.

And nothing was more real when I saw you and knew that I could go no further.