Four hours of sleep.
Four hours until waking, pretending yesterday was special.
Four hours without thinking.
Four hours without conscious breathing.
Four hours until waking, pretending today will be a day to remember, five, ten, twenty years from now.
Twenty hours before four hours without irrational thought and the intention of being the centerfold of life.
Four hours until I hate myself again. Dreams always look better when the ego isn’t in checkmate. When distortion is the memory and not fated to rationalization.
The sun was not,
two melting tangerines.
Your hands were not,
carved from ice.
This place was not,
as long, or deep, or tilted.