This Is A Very Warm Dream Poem by Mita Diran

Today's one of those days, where I wish I lived in a world where no lines bind a nation, and this planet is one giant park where we could roll down the slopes of China and land in the banks of Cuba.

It's one of those days when you just want to stay at home and be out there at the same time, half in, half out. Like I'm sitting on the edge of my veranda, curled against the softest pillow and my nervous legs are stretched, long enough to soak up the rays of the unyielding sun.

I can taste the cooking from next door. It's the wind, bragging the scent of whatever's there on your table, Neighbour.

It's one of those days where you spill bits of ripped paper from atop an 11-storey building, and see how it dances its way towards the ground. In beautiful, arrested movement. I can't dance like that, not even half as graceful.

I can close my eyes and disappear under the warmth. I disappear, and then I'd fly across the sky as though I'm on rocket power, just as easy.

I'd land beside a grand piano, in the middle of that same giant park, playing endless tunes on an empty seat. What a momentum. This is Chopin, not Bach.

I look up before pulling up the blankets. I'm curling up underneath it, leaving all the brightness behind. This is a dream. This is a very warm dream.