Snug as a Bug

I get these appetites
that make me sad.
Wanting is the root
of sadness, these appetites
constructed of memory soaked
dreams. They are not real.
.
Sentiments of new lives,
joyous pirouettes down new streets,
singing pretty songs.
Wings are on my ankles.
.
I dream of importance.
I dream of more
than passing glances.
I dream of celebration.
.
Then I look at the flesh of the dreams.
The labor of them tears my heart.
I toss away my telephone.
The curtain and the dimness
may be the world. I have
tiny lights.