I’m dreaming of ice capped Himalayan souls
without algorithms stenciled to their cheeks
and bloody lipstick, grinning ear to ear.

You want western hemisphere sand in your
teeth, thrashing
in your sleep on the gulf of Mexico
sea breezes always wore you pretty thin.

And I’m not saying that I couldn’t build
a ladder up to your state of mind
fashioned from the wood of sunken ships
at the bottom of the Atlantic—
but if I did, I could never reach its end.

You know I was never one for pretty baths I
soaked in dead layers of skins floating in bits
around me. Dreaming that one day I could
coax this skeleton out through my mouth
so that one day its bone might collect dust
while they wait for you.

Because I am yet to fly to the place where you are
somewhere with jagged edges, somewhere like you.