space

I woke up wondering what blind people dream about. The last thing they saw? I would dream about my mother's feet. Or your ghost, in blue, standing in my dining room,  your lips pursed together like sandbags. That is the last thing I saw. I don't like to look at the stars anymore, not lately, I can't conceive of the space. I want to live in a studio apartment, where there is no space. No mirrors. No hiding places. I was in love with you today, so much my corneas hurt, from the space.