She is wearing rags and feathers, from Salvation Army counters

it's odd, knowing that
everything i've regretted recently,

has lead me here to you, and your absense.
Every lover
with eyes that warm and hands that tear;
Looking around my workshop

[as it is tonight, just that] I see evidence
of myself in everything:
the stickie note above the bed, the cup of coffee and glass of water. A pair of heels. A kleenex box perched percariously on a stack of books. 5 notebooks in plain sight.
The absense of you.
The dreams [nighmares] skulking on the cealing, reaching down occasionally to tickle my face or pull my hair.
If I were brave, I'd deal with them.
Banishing some, letting others go - after tender goodbyes - and helping a few down, making them adjust and adapt to reality;
'til I once again have control

[in the absense of you]

a voice whispers : there is
poetry
in the dark my darling, and what are you?
Sandy gritty eyes [my own]
peel open to have a look about;
What poetry where? Who's darling am I tonight?
"What I am" has little consequence tonight - while voice unseeable whisper, priorities shit to accomidate them [& besides, the only part of that statement that is new to is not that]
What poetry?
The stuff in my mind, the words of madness' voice? Or is it perhaps under my pillow? At the foot of my bed, or hiding in a cup? Hovering above me [ in such case, perhaps it entered with our friend here]
I blink at the sand in my eyes.
When did time move from 1 to 4?
Why am I afriad - when did I find the time for his nightmare?
I shiver.
4 to 10am.
The poetry came with the sun.