66/365: Talking In My Sleep
I could crawl up into yesterday.
I could hear your hair along your collar
and the sound of rounded ice
knocking on the edge of the thick plastic cup
filled with cheap vodka.
I could smell that old house,
its sick-sweet glue and musty carpet.
I could see your lips curve
as you listen to tapes of me talking in my sleep,
but I won't.
It is too much to be both in the present moment
and in another that consumes it.