Sometimes moonlight falls across my pillow.
I’m sure it does this often, but
sometimes I don’t see it.

I lie on my stomach and squeeze my eyes shut and
think of dreams I know won’t happen but
I want them to. I don’t want them

to morph to memories behind my eyes,
reminding me why my dreams
won’t happen.

But I can’t control the past
so I watch it all play out with horror
and feel my muscles tighten

and feel my stomach squeeze and my fists
clutch emptiness and I watch myself
touch and taste and feel it all

And I know that my dreams won’t happen.
I can’t risk it all happening

And only when I realize this,
only when the pain’s this great,

do I unsqueeze my eyes and stomach
and notice with surprise that
sometimes moonlight falls across my pillow.

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