Every day, every moment, without knowing it,
You dream the dream of the living.
You yearn to piece yourself together,
To turn halves and quarters and eighths into wholes,
To fit the myriad parts of yourself one to
Another, like some puzzle of traits and attributes
That when complete will spell the perfect version
Of a you, glimmering, shiny and wet like a fish.
You will be what you always wanted,
How you always envisioned yourself,
Golden and pirouetting like a miniature
Ballet dancer atop a chiming music box.
You know that you are now but a fraction of
What you could be, that you are just
Unmolded clay, a lopsided face, a chuckle
Instead of a laugh, a head of unbrushed hair.
To dream the dream of the living is a cozy, easy thing,
As natural and latent as breathing, or moving.
To dream the dream is to keep your head down.
But what should happen if you were to raise your head,
To look your own quivering reflection in the eye,
To acknowledge that maybe the hair looks better a mess.