Sometimes I forget
and picture you inside your house
with all the window walls-
the last specimen of some swimming species
caught haphazardly in a bright lit world.
Sometimes I wake up
panicked
that all the windows broke and you
lay gasping across your sea-green couch
with your hair drying in long knots
and your wet eyes hardening
into wooden replicas like museum skeletons
where they pretend to know that the dinosaurs
wore red across their backs.
All the children would come and stare
sneaking pokes against the back of your arm
when their parents aren't looking
just to make sure that you are really
real.
Sometimes I wonder if you are
and that's why I came crashing through
your living room wall today.
Sometimes I forget
glass isn't water.
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