I'll sit and smile
at your closed eyes, think
about wearing pigtails in
your dreams and dancing
around, wearing a puffy dress.
Let's throw autumn leaves
at each other like elementary
school kids. I'll kick you
in the shins because
I like you.
May I have this dance with your blue eyes?
They move quickly left
to right under their lids.
We can waltz to your steady breath,
your relaxed pulse.
You'll be leading.
All this I see revealed in the
wriggling vines of the yellowed retro
wallpaper in your room; your room
in a house so old and clean that the only
thing collecting dust is your grandma.
I appreciate the color of that wallpaper.
Only you can tolerate it
because you're color blind.
You'd mistake my pink dress
for purple and doing so would make
me laugh for a second or two, until it got old
and I'd ask you to play on the seesaw.
Even when sleepy, I'm like a
five-year old with you.
Still, I wish I could control
your dreams on a mixing board;
turning knobs and levers to make this
fantasy of mine so real, that you'd wake
up with my fuzzy pink hair-tie
(the one that matches the tutu)
in your hand.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Andrea Miranda would be
pleased to hear from you.