The pale angel, whispering and angular, is at the center of a fragmented dream world. His vocal poetry is haunting and lithe – winding light around his stairstep-spine. Call him “Beautiful One.” Call him “Best Friend.” Call him “You-Take-My-Breath-Away.” The only instrument he requires is freedom, the type that moves with dissonant waves – all lyricism and vigor, like a breakdown made for dreamers. But, I don’t think he saw me. I don’t think he noticed my desperation for something real, for someone to touch my ribcage-elbows-collarbone and affirm my existence. Can I help but to want to be danced upside down, to spin around like youthful romance, to jump and be okay? I look into my bathroom mirror, striped down bare and ready to take my shower. It’s 3:00am but I have nowhere to be tomorrow, or the next day or the next.