Jenaicklefritz’s Weblog

He Told Me He Dreamed In Color

but the memories were in grayscale,
and it doesn’t really matter.

I asked to hear a story of his past
long gone, if it weren’t elapsed.
He said,
“I was born in eighty-four,”
and that was that—was the past.

Then the sun drowned in the hills, dead
and floating in the fleshy,
white gold waves.
The last bees drew their evening’s
honey dust
as we lolled in the grains, awake.

It hurts to think his golden past
won’t amount to more than silver.
Every thought,
dream and memory,
for me, is full in water color.

Then a wasp landed
on my lips,
dug his feet into the gloss.
I wondered if there’s such a thing
as wanting what you’ve got.

I let his needles touch me,
wary of the sting.
His orange and blackness will
haunt me.
But he won’t remember a thing.