Water slips through the slits of her fingers as she keeps
her gaze to the vastness of sky; she wonders how
she dreams and in what color --- cerulean, sienna,
or that plain block of brown --- do they come in, her dreams.
Or maybe she slumbers in silence, void of images, a blank slate
which clamors to be filled, splattered with paint: a splash of red
for passion, a smear of carnation, signaling a silent, burning love
she longs to send her. So she whispers to the night, willing the wind
to carry her words to where she sleeps, dreaming in snippets --- a fingertip tracing
the outline of a scar from when she once tried and failed, a hesitant echo,
silence golden and yet wishing to be taken back with the words
I love you, darling. And somehow, that is all that matters; her resting,
caught in slumber for when she awakens so it begins. Again.
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