deathly quiet of a dream

splashes of color wash up on your face. the trickle of cinnamon light bends into creases of skin, and pushes up the corners of your eyes. if i look deeper, a nebula appears in the cracking peninsula of your iris, dark rooms with closing doors. i know we are the same. i could study the burning landscape of your face, the movie screen dilemmas in your daily emotions. and if i could, i’d wrap around your twirling hairs, curl into the shallow curve of your collarbone and sleep for days. safe in a paradox. 
if we should shatter the opaque circumference created the first time our bodies spoke. we would wash away the smell of orange blossom, of water fountain laughter and the funny stories that we made up to pass the time. ours would the theirs and nothing would be a secret. time stops for no one, but when my heart hiccups and the blood heats heart temples emerge into a new kind of dementia. the kind where i believe in love. and there is no way to protect, a shining ball of beauty, too fragile for the jagged cliffs of living. for the crashing shore and turning tides, tearing sutures and rupturing the glades of slender woven havens, the home we built together. 
it doesn’t seem that the fluffy clouds are shaping to my story line. the corruption boils in dark heaps, humid glances of lightning and the storm leaves us with questions. our fusing is diffusing into an arid desert of hollow caves, abandoned to the eroding wind and unforgiving sun. i’d fight, push the limits of my humanity to save a bristle, a cactus spike of hope to see you again. on the other side of sanity, in the deathly quiet of a dream.