Some nights there’s you thrusting into me,
we’re alive and breathing together
then you are sleeping a sleep of depression
and the golden dragon cannot wake you.
My breasts can lead you to my bed
but I cannot keep you there: It’s all fallen apart
and still we limp on – not the shining monarchs
we had once planned to be. We are ever gentler
with each other, switching to a dream that is hard to see.
Who is my heart? You are.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.