the colors tend to fade blues to black reds to grey i can see them with my eyes closed light refracted like it once was in a room with more mirrors than books your prose needs editing but your poses are well rehearsed concessions that i make i m not looking to be deified i ain t no saint it s you i see with my eyes closed unfinished fiction that my mind wrote in a room on the floor in the mirror i watch myself move as if you were here the cool side of the pillow on the wrong side of the ocean fearless flies in my mouth dead moths in the sheets lie so still like paralytic tonight i ll sleep in the gutter tomorrow i won t remember by the time i m home this nightmare will be only a dream