You breathe like I do.
You sleep the same way, too,
temporarily visiting a world
with black and white pictures
of what you want waking life to be.
I know this because
I am listening to you breathe.
Each staggering inhale marks the spot
where dream sequence shifts.
I wonder if you are dreaming
of storms the way I do.
The way tornadoes rip apart
college campuses that
I've never even been to.
Probably not though
because you stand on four legs.
You're dreaming of bones
freshly picked from carcasses.
You're dreaming of baby birds
learning how to fly.
You're dreaming of Dad coming home
with that twinkle in his eye,
sparkling with "good boy"s and
"do you have to go outside"s.
Either way...
the rise and fall of your chest
reminds me of a rhythm
found deep within my existence.
And I know that you are part of me.
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