As I prayed myself to sleep,
hoping for her face over a text,
an angel’s essence dried my tears.
The dream crashed my memory
into parked insecurities.
In a cold sweat, I shot upright.
I hardly remember it myself.
She’s me at my worst,
in the worst way.
I’d rather she swing her palm
across my face, then reflect
the maturity that her eyes convey,
twisting mine into knots,
because I forgot the plot.
I’m obsessed with a text
that I thought I’d deleted.
But here it is,
and there Amber is,
standing in front of me.
But I’d rather have the text.

Twitter – @AC0040

(© 2023 AC)

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