Poem: Aniseed Dreams

Sometimes all we have
are dreams like aniseed
a strange moment
we can’t quite identify.
Or enjoy.

I breathe in stale air
sleep on sheets
rucked up beneath me
wake to lines imprinted
on slack skin.

I twist into them
sweet and bitter dreams
that go together
better than I sleep.
These are long nights.

Another bedtime,
slipping into darkness
or slipping away
who’s to know the difference
in the light of day.

r.l.w

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