A Poem A Day, Poem #18

it was cold,
waiting for you,
a piano plays--somewhere
--like a vibration that massaged
me in a manic fray of slurred dew,
where dreams lay on top
of misery like a melody
coming alive inside the heart
--like a rhythm were
absent from the memory
--like a dream were
coming undone before you ever
spent it on sleep
(where do they go--these dreams we sell to sleep?)