There is a dream I have yet to dream.
There is a light from the snow
falling in layers outside my window.
It reflects the moon, little white spots
when I squeeze shut my eyes. I sleep alone
in this room. When I open them
I wake in another and wonder
if the dream was worth waiting for.
I slide a hand under my pillow
and hold it in a fist. I wonder if I should
believe in magic. Should I read more
about patience? Ask my friends
what it takes to fall in love?
They’ll never understand, so it remains
a pointless question. There is a faint sound
of birds chirping on the other side
of the window, but I know it
can’t be true. There was once a woman
I knew who shuffled from room to
room doing laundry
and washing dishes and folding clothes
and putting them in drawers
to be worn some other time. Life is full
of things I don’t understand.
There are so many songs I need to hear.
To fall in love one must listen
indiscriminately, waiting for the secrets,
the possibility of an outro, pursing lips
when the unexpected note hits.
Whispers are where secrets reside. Let me
believe this to be true. I’ll use them later.