Bits. Dreams.

Sometimes I dream the most fantastical things until

I wake up like Dorothy,

You were there, and you were there

Though each of you were such wonderful versions of

yourselves,

Until the beauty is washed away under the showerhead

And the wonder is undermined by breakfast

And the story I try to hold onto disintegrates in the light

like frail antique paper,

Pieces blown out of my hands and lost.