Dream.

I dreamt I was an assassin. I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling the guilt of the dream heavily, as real on my body as the blanket.

The stars stick on the sky
because I say they do

because I want to weigh the time
with heavy rocks

with words I try to write
against their slipping

it works until the stanza stops
and I can't love you

the past becomes the past is why
and you are going

with the stars gone