The Surrealist

I lose myself within shadows:
the looming, lanky shapes of skyscrapers that veil busy streets and intersections—
the clouds in the sky reflected on pavement like the artwork of a lonely artist,
and even in my own shadow, which hides sometimes when the sun, too, loses itself behind a darkened silhouette.

I lose myself within the ripples upon the water, transfixed by the ease in which rocks skip off its slippery surface.
It reminds me briefly of a beach in Washington, whose massive waves engulfed every rock
I dare let fly, my effort consumed in salt and foam.
I would spend hours washing sand from toes, and wrestling salt from hair and flesh,
but the sea was my obsession, and it only took a moment of memory to lose myself again.

I lose myself in blackened sky, awed and
breathless over the dimension that unfurls: white and shining.
Wishes are placed on every star for morning, as if, when day came,
the night would fade away with me.
I was always here when sunlight peeked over jagged mountain ridges.

I lose myself in everything—anything,
only wishing to stray from reality as long as allowed,
to blur the union of it and fantasy; to give a corner for breath.


Soon, I know I must awake, but for now:

let me dream a while longer.