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All night alabaster dreams, less than authentic. More than fever-fed, a new illness written in fine lines, palms of open hands. As if we made this a ritual, the murmurs and underhanded throws, the music boxes we traded for money. So now I imagine splinters from my childhood, picnic tables, wild white horses. It came upon the forested caving, a new soundtrack full of broken branches and bitter berries. I thought I was a doctor, listened for your pulse, shone a light in your eyes and ears. Were we friends then? It’s hard to keep track of the moments, the important ones sorted from the rest. We sat on pillows chanting like half moon sisters. Waiting for someone to invite us in. To mail our letters for us because we never had stamps. I forgot what it felt like when you brushed my hair. You stopped asking. The quiet crept in to taunt us, outside girls jumping rope, shrieking and laughing. Memory snapping to the past and present, maybe the future…a deja vu of things to come. These nights are more for yelling, peeling off price tags, eating leftovers, sewing up holes. The dream book lies empty next to the bed. The guitar unplayed, missing strings, dusty in the corner. The books are good company, the teacups, the sounds of an old heater, unlit candles, your scent.
