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If dreams were like choices
And I could pick which ones came.
I question how willing to surrender the chance I would be.
Are these dreams worth having,
Knowing they are all that come?
Or do the ones without you in them make them more?

Hugging my knees to my chest I look over the edge of my bed at the torrid waves that claw at the sheets.
Seeing there teeth gnash at the mattress is almost comforting in a way.
Knowing that being submerged and dying are almost the same.
If the waters were warm perhaps I'd be more inclined to take the plunge and see what lies beneath the blue.
But as it is I feel the chill of mist and know that, much like ice, I will grow to hate the embrace.

I do not know the currents.
Nor the passageways of this sea.
I simply hide atop my bedding and, like Columbus must've, assume I know where I will be when I next see shore.
But even I am not so silly as to think that I have rights to knowledge beyond my knowledge.
I know what I know.
I think I know what I know.
What I know is that I know what I know and what I don't know is everything else.
But what do I know?

I wonder on occasion if you can hear me now.
My broken voice gets ripped apart in the storm and leaves me with little more than a whisper to suffice.
Is that enough?
Would a breath travel as far as a scream if I gave it my heart?
Even if it managed to find you out there on the sea, would you hear it and know?
Or pass it off as the wind playing tricks on a lonely island in the aftermath.
And do the taunts of the tempest breeze ever make you wish it were me?
Like I wish it was me.

When I lay my head to rest I find comfort in the thought that occasionally, when I'm lucky and unsuspecting, I find myself with you.
And in those dreams I find that I measure time not by hours I wake but by the seconds I sleep.
For the only time my heart beats, is when it is with you.