One morning I wake up
with tulip petals
underneath my eyelids.
I pull them out,
vibrant painter's palette yellow and red,
moist with my saline,
fragrant and delicate.
I save them in a glass bowl
On the bedside table.

The next morning when I wake up,
there are tiny goldfish filling up
my mouth.
I hurry to the bathroom,
fill the sink with water,
and spit them out to swim in the
clean, white
porcelain basin.

When you arrive,
I show you my new treasures.
You are underwhelmed.
You drain the sink and
let the fish die squirming in
the strawberry shampoo-scented air.
You throw the tulip petals
out of the window,
And sadly I realize,
the price of you is
the denial of my loveliest
imagination.