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The daytime soundtrack is replaying in my stomach- on repeat-
growling with 3AM hunger and calling me to let go of the day.
"Let down your hair and release into the calling; into the sleep."
It tells me that here- here I can be with and what I want,
I can do and see and have it too; to the sound of strings plucked
fingers pulling tone; and those dreams will tell me the secrets
of my slicked back conversations and daylight interactions.
Celebrities and concubines- tangerine summers and winters
filled with satsumas tumbling. Thick skinned lemons in spring.
Which is the season for citric? They all are! They all are!
I can smell your oranges in my bed sheets with a shiver-
my lips pucker with a burn sharp in the base of my jaw.
Your body is aloe on sun-scorched skin. A counteract to acid.
I am dreaming of playing instruments on street corners
and the music is pouring from your eyes- flooding the streets
and bringing the dank and darlings of the city crashing
down onto my doorstep.