I'll weasel in and out your world
digging tunnels through your sleep.
You might see my face across the
insides of your eyelids
but in the morning you will not know
that it was me.
For sometimes what we dream,
remains the clever fantasy
that we reach for in the morning,
like a cold rush of water to the tongue
right when you awake-
takes away the stale taste. . .

I can't get you off my mind,
I hope the thought of me holds
the same amount of time