The body does not know what world
it lives in. This is why when I dream of falling
from a cliff, my body shocks awake,
heart blasting a scream it no longer needs.
Where the soul moves, the blood will follow.
When the dream returned, on my way out
of my office, at work, just before my hand reached
the door, my tired body remembered you:
Lying on our sides, in someone’s bed,
you had lain your cheek in my hand.
When the dream returned to me
in my office, at work, my heart rioted
from reflex, my veins swelling
from the breath that rose in.
I was angry for only then waking up.
My body rooted itself through the carpet,
felt me slowly leaving, preparing itself to fall.
My left hand is the soil you left so quietly
open. My left hand still believes it is there,
in some room where you are alive,
this left brain blasphemy.
My left hand does not age. It has not surrendered
a cell of dead skin. It does not waste its grip
calling the soul back.