Rooted

Rooted

Seamlessly disjointed dreams.
Some nights stretch to endless
lengths, marked only by the second
hand ticking, not ticking,
reverberating silence,
then ticking again,
just as you think that the clock
has broken, that you are frozen.
The pillow is stained with memories
and yellow coffee sploshes —
my own personal dream catcher.
When I shut my eyes I see you
sat under a blanket of grey
on yellowing grains.
I’m frightened by the way I stay
rooted
while you fall into the clouds.
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