I can’t put you in my dreams anymore,
There isn’t enough room.
Your face won’t fit in my fantasies.
Your hands are sandpaper.
Your kisses are parched and dry.
The truth is jagged splinters of glass
in my skin.
I wish you were smoke
that I could roll out of my mouth.
Inhale, and exhale,
and then you would be gone,
and I would be left with my dreams,
for they are more comforting
than my realities.