It is

It is the river that runs across the bottom of the sea of dreams,

the agony that drills the rock,

the doubt,

the breath held,

the waiting.

It is the waiting.

It is the joyful water of the river,

the honey,

the cotton candy,

the clouds traveling light across the sky,

the sweet that does not scald.

It is everything that is sweet.

It is the time that stretches,

the future that will never end,

it is everything that was,

what it will be,

what it will never be again.

It is the eternal time.

It is the wound open to the pain of salt,

the doubt,

the nights

and the insomnia,

it is the fear that runs through the skin,

the hopelessness.

It is the agony.

It is a row of days that you have counted ever since the beginning,

it is all the nights,

all the words,

repeated in the silence.

It is the persistence.

It is a tongue running across your territory,

It is the tip of your fingers signaling a path.

It is the fruit open to the bite.

It is the sex.

It is a colony of ants flowing through your veins,

it is the perfect second that stretches.

It is the ecstasy.

It is the dream you wake up to feeling the night’s gaze,

it is the moon’s suspicion,

the wind of darkness in your guts.

It is a dream.

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