If I dream, I hope it will be of coffins and being lowered down into the earth alive, but I know that leading role will be taken by your face and sparkling dandelions.
Because my pain has become a law of physics. It has momentum--it hurts more as time goes by. ( it's not like you bother to dress these injuries you've inflicted.) I'm the patient today under your knife but you're just a butcher who happened to walk into the E.R. with a scalpel in hand. You forgot to put me under anesthetic; dead meat doesn't need painkillers, after all. Your face is leaning over me and you consider that to be enough and I agree. (you’re better than morphine)
But you're not hypnotic, you're just a particularly bright protostar and I can't quite look you in the eye. We're enshrined in this nebula and I think it's made of mostly tear gas because my eyes are trying to fog up on me, but I can't let them because I don’t even have your face to call anesthesia anymore. You walked away and you're expecting me to fall unconscious, dream of blackness(the emptiness of space without your bright nuclear reactions).
I won't dream, because when I do I'll dream of your anesthesia and sparkling dandelions that dot the sky. I'll dream of moons with your eyes for craters and the blackness(yourhair) that surrounds everything not illuminated by the chain fusion of hydrogen.
But you're not the surgeon(butcher) leaning over me with a cleaver in hand and bright lights overhanging. You weren't in this cloudy nebula I find myself existing as; your light, your plasma, your atoms of hydrogen and helium and the result of gravity exists beyond the arms of this galaxy, beyond the reaches of my own gravitational field. You have your own solar system in tow, so the real surgeon just placed a mask of ether over my mouth and I saw you. Have you even seen the edges of my dusty, malformed nebula? I wasn't shaped quite right. (God's fingers slipped and He didn't feel like fixing me.) I can't emit light and I blame it on that but the real reason is because I don't have you.
The real reason is that I am just a nebula under a butcher's scalpel, dreaming of your face and sparkling dandelions.