When I tell you in the morning
just before the sunlight touches
the tips and curves of the city,
before the water boils for our
morning coffee, that I had
dreamt up a nightmare with you
please do believe me.
You see, nightmares are nothing less
than daydreams born off grey clouds
and if I can paint a million colors to
your name then perhaps ash stained
fingertips and lavender bruises
kissed by words spat on dinner tables
are just as lovely.
You see, I am a whirlwind catastrophe,
a paradox breathing and walking through
blissful Decembers to desolate Januaries.
I am the taste of regret, a thousand
should-bes dancing in my tongue. I am
the screaming howl of hail and storm.
Winter’s frightful daughter clutching
the arm born off Mid-Summer’s Eve.
You see, you are the gentle lapping
of waves in the afternoons -drifting
back and forth in the sand, a continuous
unending promise of calm. A drink of
the finest wine and pancakes cooked
to a crisp. You are the sound of home
burnt to the ground by the anguish of
broken kitchenware strewn on
marble floors and plastic tabletops.
So please do believe me,
when I tell you that it would be nothing
less than privilege to remain miserable
in your company. To dine in hell every
evening if it meant waking up to the
sound of your breathing in the pale
cold light of morning. Even if it means
wiping gently old wounds just to leave
new ones of your making.
I would self-destruct at 5 am and make
cigarette butts off my numbered days
if you listen to my nightmares amidst
sausages and coffee.