I embroider my name on the back of your neck
to remind me that you're just a metaphor for my inner child...
a symbol of who I was before

My fingers lock behind your waist
and we dance ourself full
of slumber.
Our dreams are stickier than you
taught me, but I was never one
to follow.

Wishful thinking and thoughts of wishing
this was truth invade our private party
The Proper Noun Brigade arms itself with Pop Culture
and annihilates me awake.

Sometimes this happens every night.
Sometimes the pencil is too heavy.
Sometimes it's best to just "hurl the pencil and shake the keys."