High-pitch

by on September 4, 2021 :: 0 comments

I dream you back, a butterfly —
flit in, dance past belly, thigh,

touch cheek, settle on sheet.
I offer texting thumb, you float down,

vibrate there, do not flee.
Maybe you’ve changed, will stay,

vacuum, massage me, clean the sink.
You sleep. I grab phone, snap photos,

store your rainbowed slumber —
an Instagram treat, red, lilac,

gold, green. You wake, unfold wings,
transmute to drone, rise,

hover briefly, high-pitched whine.
I wake too, you zip off east.

editors note:

When “sleepin’ alone in the drone of the darkness…” – mh clay

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