after Goya's Disparate sin título
I want an escape, someone new
stretched out in the sidecar of my slumber.
I am a scapegoat of habit, a coward
reaching for some fellow passenger
to share my nightmares with. Before sleep
I arrange the events of the day,
compile faces I have stumbled past
in my travels: anxious young strangers
who have nodded towards me
or sat shifting in their seats, edging
towards the door. I collect them,
file them neatly in my hand
as I pull back my sheets and slide
my arm under the cold pillow.
In dreams, I'm looking for the shape
of a girl, personal armor,
someone to occupy this temporary hell with.
A person I can lie to, not next to.
Someone who believes the world is humid,
someone stuck reconstructing
the anatomy of a roadside snack.
I need a reason for sleep.
Someone to taunt me awake.