Disappear, float away.
It’s that easy.
There were daisies in my dream
and filtered sunlight.
No faces, though.
Which is how I get through—
it’s painful to meet all those looks.
My eyes are violet, that is,
unsure of what color they are.
Is haunted a color?
Hollow?
Heaven?
Helpless?
Something rare? Like an eclipse?
Or as common as goodbye.
I am opaque.
I am goodbye.
My eyes are the color of goodbye,
always gone before you get there.
Arrivals make me nervous;
leaving gives me comfort.
I’d disappear, float away
if I could
now.
But in the dream
the pasture had daisies,
my arms covered in golden light
and someone reaching for me.
Don’t be alarmed,
this already happened long ago,
remember?
Eden died, we all know that,
just don’t want to believe it.
Daisies were only part of the dream.
The shit on my boots,
however,
is real.
