In my dreams
With white
A dress, divine
Or frames
For windows, doors and bikes
White architecture of arts and sciences
Once it was a cutting board in a white rustic kitchen in Ibiza, the world capital of white.
We ski snow covered peaks, reflected in your ice blue eyes
Another night, we swim in a sea of sparkling diamonds
Held hands in a poolside lounge chair
Just dreams and effects
Reflections of unrequited love
The light, bright white
Wherever we are

It must be desire
For purity
Sanctify symbolically
What we knew was dirty
And tried to bleach white
Clarify, at least
If not brighten

When I dream of you
It is always washed in white
It is what wakes me in the middle of the night
That light in the dark
So dark, now, eyes wide open
Staring into black

Wide awake, I shake in panic
So alone, walking wounded
Can't smile for the child at play
Thoughts of suicide and inebriation
Anything to make this dark go away

A haunted house
A broken heart
I sleep outside to escape the ghosts, but I can't escape my heart. Smoke and drink until it stops. Be still my beating, bleeding heart.

I hear a voice outside the tent, far off, blown in by the sea wind, beyond the dunes, down near the shore. Can't clearly hear. "Remember us" or "Care for us". Maybe "Had enough?" now "Life is rough" The tent rustles in the wind. Of course there's no voice. I close my eyes and think whitewashed thoughts of flowers, WhatsApp voice messages of her laughing at something I wrote, and the scent of Jungle by the coffee machine and the look of fear in her ice blue eyes. Deep pools. "Lazarus", the voice in the wind suddenly whispers. Lazarus. Rise and come out.

No Lazarus here, love boat captain. Resuccitation, maybe. Resurrection is too dramatic, even for me. But let's see. I get up. And step through the door. Night and morning light mixing into gray. I'm in my classroom and open a white cupboard with a key. There is a jar of thoughts, and a box of beautiful, broken stories, in parts. Puzzle pieces never put together. I turn back to the door, walk through, and I'm on the shore. The sea of who are we? There's that wind, Lazarus. Follow the footsteps. At last, a teal towel, and there, a couple in the water. He says, "I'm coming to kiss you now," and it's over.

In the dark tent again. That same towel is my pillow. And beneath it, a small box that I told my class belonged to Pandora. There is a butterfly inside. After Pandora opened the box and let all the misery and heartbreak out into the world, only this fluttering butterfly remained.


Pure white, blinding bright, summer fever white hot dress, shining diamond like a Jungle flower of art and science design, window door and bicycle frames, Ibiza, beach, sand, snow, chaise lounge, Lazarus bandage, pure, holy, ghost white


Grow from this dirt in me, dear hope, like a flower to the white light, let my pain be your raín, and grow in me, and I'll believe in Lazarus, Pandora and the sea of you and me. Let hope grow in all of us, like Lazarus. And fly like a butterfly, Pandora. Pure white hope.

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