R, these new meds they have me on
give me the craziest dreams. Like how last night
I dreamt I was in Berlin and crying
because I couldn't find you but everyone sang like you,
but through eight layers of silk. Like lips moving in glass.
And R, they had this shop there
and you would've thought I was crazy;
and I got to drape flowers on bare skin like we
talked about, got to wind satin around air, and still, 
I wasn't happy. Isn't that weird?
How I wasn't happy, I mean. 
Do you still have dreams? It doesn't matter,
I'm just wondering because R, the weird thing is, 
I pulled out a map and no matter where we were, 
your city was a thousand miles away,
and no matter where we were, I was on a highway and crying
and my parents cried with me until everyone in the city of Berlin was crying
in foreign tongue. Lips in glass
like formaldehyde, R. Lips in glass, like apology
could be enough. You've been showing up here
for months. Leaving footprints
on my spine, grabbing at sleepstuff with nothing but gluttony
and your own two hands.
Give me the old nights
back. Stop showing up dead
in every dream I have.

EZRA LEBOVITZ is a New Jersey writer who delights in making weird music and spending too much time on JSTOR.  An editorial intern with The Blueshift Journal, his work has been recognized by NJCTE and Scholastic Art and Writing, and have appeared in decomP, Polyphony HS, and YA Review Network, among others.