My stomach still burns sometimes.
Burns with coulda, shoulda, woulda.

Burns with sea-lust and tree-lust.
And wanderlust.

And I could have sworn, holding on
to glimmering wispy bits of a dream
state, that I was standing on the top
of a mountain, looking down. That
I was swimming through a raging sea.
That I was in the grocery store, not a
single label could I read.

I could have sworn I was in your bed,
or your bed, or your bed. (Or really any
of your beds, in dreams it's hard to determine)

And it's hard to determine what I want
sometimes. Most times. All the times.

And I could have sworn, holding on

to glimmering wispy bits of a dream

state, that I was choking, spluttering, 

struggling for breath; wet on a beach

sand under my nails, in my hair. That 

I was being suffocated by blankets, 

pillows, sheets. Strong, strong hands 

but weak wrists- holding me down.

Holding me down but not bringing me down.

Ah, well. These heavy words are hard to speak.
Yet, you must know.