An Ode to a dream in a Brand New fashion

I never thought you’d know my name and you still don’t. Screaming at a mannequin. Peering into dead eyes. Where’s my Hollywood end? No trips taken on the red eye. Stagnant, cold feet hesitation. You can stare but she won’t bite. Thats why I sit here at night and write. My dream girl cuts to my soul and she doesn’t even have a face. I never think to much about her. She’s always in second place. Or that’s what I project so she’ll fall for me. It’s all a part of the scheme.

Guest Appearance When I Was Sleeping

Last night I had the strangest dream. Everything was exactly how it seemed. Except, there was this girl. I knew her. I know of her. I’ve seen her picture. I know some of the songs she likes and the people who sing them. It was oddly inspiring. We held hands and she showed me around her city; one of the few I have yet to see. It’s strange because she lives on my screen. We were in love. As in love as one can be, as far as dreams go. I was in love with her or the idea of her or may be just her face. Either way, she gave me butterflies when I was sleeping. It was oddly, intriguingly strange.

It’s never who you think it is.

My bed is half empty or half full. Hands by themselves are unfinished puzzles. Eyes can see forever when staring into others. Now, I’m looking for every reason to say something. Any way to get your attention. I just want to watch TV in your apartment and walk around your town. Drink until the sun comes up and fall asleep on the ground. But when I look in your direction my mind turns off. Leaving me defenseless as the gloves slide off. But you don’t even meet me in my dreams. This always sounds worse than it seems.