Another Real

The dream shatters
with the noise of morning,
so delicate is the night.
Morning rises, gray and wet,
intensifying the disconnect.
Real seems less concrete,
like it could simply be a message
from another real, onto my own.
And, what I see with my eyes
and touch with my hands
could shatter.
Just like the dream.
I hold the counter for balance,
then pick up an apple.
I can feel the resistence of the skin
as I bite and hear the solid crunch.
Juice trickles down my chin
and I let it roll down,
tucking under my chin.
My vision clears as two worlds
rejoin as one.
Real.
Again.

*In response to Sunday Scribblings #261