perhaps he’s the light 

in your eyes – 

the north star 

in your vast, dilated pupil; 

the lone, soggy oat 

in a sea of milk. 

  

perhaps he’s the sleep 

you neglect – 

when your dreams 

mimic the drabness of heaven. 

you surrender all 

of your brain to him. 

  

and when he laces words 

with honey – 

your soles lift 

from your heels. you’re flying when 

his sugar coated 

pocket chews his hand. 

you’re numb and tasteless as he leaves the room. 

  

he’s the light in your  

bleeding eyes – 

the blinding 

beams of a passing truck; speeding, 

flooding thought, leaving 

wakes in trodden dust.