When the moon dozes, its
drift across South Florida

forgotten, he peeks
into my dream, worms
his way in. His presence
holds me hostage in REM,
eyelids fluttering.

Even the thunder from a storm
sweeping over from the Bahamas
fails to wake me.

He sweet-talks me, bids me
roll back the stone from
the tomb of old memories.
His breath becomes a song in
my ear, reminding me of what
used to be sweet and so
I open my arms, finally, to
say yes, to hold him, yes,
to bring it all back, but

he has already wandered away,
bored, to mess with some
other old lover's dream.


Pris Campbell
©2006  revised 2014

submitted to AC PAPA journal

Art: Kimpt (no title)
courtesy the old ArtMagik site

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