Beautiful on the pale blue sweaty sheets,
he went on talking, talking, talking...
in his staccato, self-absorbed style
of monologue, confusing me by his use
of obscure phrases and disconnected
pronouns like he, she, it, they... them.

And if I ever shrugged at him or tried asking
him, "Who? What?" I received a sharp rebuke,
a vast and frowning impatience, as if he should
not have to explain such obvious things. Ever.

Later that night, when I was alone again and
almost ready to fall asleep, it occurred to me
that he was like some dreamer who expects
everybody else to know everything as well as
he does because they are all part of his dream.

I laid my head back on the pillow, stretched
my legs and yawned, wiggled my toes and
thought... perhaps he`s right and my problem
is that I just can`t keep up... because of all
the frigging gravity... in the real world.

01/14/2016