I lay in my room
draped over a bed
whose powder blue sheets
coordinate strangely well
with the tangled brown
carpet. I dream
of your hands like soft doves
flying through the night
and landing on rough
trees and moist, delicate
flowers. I envision
our faces and surroundings
as we run through the field
just beyond the forest,
foreheads glistening with hot
excitement, yellow blossoms
like tiny flitting fireflies glad
for the darkness. I see
the wet grass licking
at our calves like harmless
and even benevolent green
snakes. All of these images
flash like a slideshow before
my wide eyes, and a picture
of smeared crimson against
your lily-like wrists sneaks
stealthily in. My eyelids droop
and hide my bright irises
from the suddenly painful
air. I sleep.