In my dreams You With white Effects 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.