Sometimes I talk to my dreams

I told him I hate
his gung-ho spontaneity
self-possession
and especially his obsession
with reality

that I hate   
his ability to spin pleasure
from naught  
even if it is due in part  
to his fine choices
for freedom

I told him I hate
the way he coos to transience
and reveals character
with simplicity   
and silence

But I didn't tell him aloud
what really bothers me
though my conscious
could almost hear it said-

I left out that I hate
how the tensity in my shoulders
evaporates
when he's entered
the atmosphere

and I failed to mention  
that I hate   
when he hints the hard stuff
because he knows   
I'll catch it
and take it better that way

I didn't tell him I hate
that he's the primary place   
I happen upon happiness
and inspiration

And what I hate    
most of all, is that   
I'll wake
to find him still
a dream