Untitled or whatever else you could call it.

It was as if I had just heard a song on the radio,
although it was just a dream, spent some time
asleep with the memories that aren't my own
riding all night listening to Christina singing
her all her songs, we stayed up all night
watching the ghosts come and go, Da Vinci
at the Quickie Mart, arguing about carrots
with Michelangelo.
Times spent counting stars, naming planets
after former lovers and idols, like Marius
and Janet. Working up an appetite while
walking back to our cars whistling riffs
comparing funny gifs, idly hinting that
what really matters in life is more fun
when it is who you're with. Listening to
Sam Jackson rant at Sly Stallone on the
philosophical equivalence of sensual
verse or the legs of Sharon Stone.
It was one night, the distance in between
falling into sleep and the ever present
wakefulness of the omnipresent dream
a hallowed moment when all the
world is in the sheets, sharing a cup
of coffee at the donut shack
comparing notes on what to wear
with Elianora and Zoolander
confidences without tack,
dunking frosted chunks as the
sun rises over the platitudes
of Major Tom and Theolonius
Monk.