Dreams, forever forgetful and fond of fiction,
tend toward betrayal. More often than not
these days, I dream myself standing, walking–

gliding, really–down hallways, up staircases,
into dances. In sleep, my body exists only
to satisfy its mind, settles into blissful illusions

of its own ability. Beast that I am, I wake
each morning untrained and wholly convinced
by the night’s movement, once again sure that

this disease, like all those before it, has run its course
and left me whole and healed. Morning, though,
promises nothing to limbs betrayed by dreams.


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