Bolted upright I ask aloud to a sleeping room
“Is this a dream”
The timbre of my voice weighs down my ears, letting
me know that it’s not
Instinctively I feel for the dip.
Tiredness shoves me back into the pillow as if to say,
“Yes it always was but you knew that already”
I pray for answers that won’t come from simply having been asked
I used to pray loudly
out in a pasture where no one but ghosts could witness
now everything’s silent mutterings as I lull myself back
“It’s okay. It was a good dream.
Good dreams get to end.”