Friday morning.


You came to me last night.

As you do every Thursday, in my dreams

I followed your hands

That are never really hands,

They only feel that way, but hotter.

You point to the sky,

And the sun burns Blue.

It always does.

How much burning does it take to do that?

An ending, you say.

And disappear

Leaving behind you a sheet of orange ashes.

Why do you always do that?


I lie awake

My head on your chest.

My right thumb pressed against the softness

under you left ear,

forefinger beneath the other,

You murmur something about blood

And I,


Just enough not to wake you,

But to press a skip in your breath.

A little harder and you’re mine forever.


Harder still and I’m yours.


How many times have I not stolen you in your sleep?


Enough times to know the pressure of my middle finger

Will pitch an arch into your back.

You should wake up and thank me.



3 fingers 4,

You squirm a little for me

And I smile.

Everything is beautiful when you sleep,

But your breath is best.

When it’s broken.




You’ll want eggs for breakfast

Perhaps I’ll run you a bath.


“I dreamt of fish last night.”

Someone’s coming, I say.

“No, I dreamed I was a fish last night.”

Then, someone beautiful is coming,

Someone for us both.

“I was swimming through the sky, you say.”

Then they’ll be here soon.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.