You’re addicted to the sound of awakening:

white-walled rooms, these Sunday afternoons

that offer up illusions and pungent perfumes

where clouds manifest into lullabies—

the promise of placid dreams that drip

from the morning’s maternal lips

where the sky is serene—

crisp and clean like a blank canvas,

a quartz crystal clarity that lets you see the future

once blinded by the Sandman’s gritty glitter dust,

now alive and screaming