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Schizo

When I wake up I often can't tell you for my life
what was a dream and what was
not,
it is one of my quirks.

Because I'm
crazy. Or
special
which, you know, is what they call the brownies and
the kids who get pushed around the hallways in
restraining chairs,
the ones oblivious that they are not like
the others.

Special.

Last night I dreamt
(at least, I think it was a dream)
that I woke up in a tent
with the air full and sweet as
nectarines,
and left you sleeping while I crept
to sit naked on the rock above the stream
and sang until you woke,
sleep still folded in your eyes.

You told me
I was dreaming but
I didn't believe you;

even
when I woke
up.




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