The guardians of my history
fringe the waking edge of
my dream,
an oddly connected series
of meaningful events
pulled from shared moments.
My waking hours are
Dashed lines,
spaces filled with
the puzzle I dreamt.
There is comfort
in my inability to create
a linear connection of
past and present,
night hours and daylight,
and I carry your
protection like
a shield.
Categories: Poetry