Irregular dreams snag on the rough edges of my mind. Fortune favors the invited. At the gold boundaries of my name, the breath of my lover moistens me like a valley. One dream is moldy. Another is antiquated. Still another dream is dripping with purple amoebas. But all of them collect on my edges, and I begin to crumble from desire. I will never get what I want. My wishes party like reprobates on the front lawn of Destiny, and they didn’t invite me.
Miniature Moon 