A few nights ago I had a dream; I was walking through middle school, in the darkness. There were people there, I know there were, but I couldn’t always exactly see them. I’m not even sure if they saw me. Well, he did at least, though there didn’t seem to be recognition. He tried, I’m sure, but the memory was gone. Perhaps it is a sign.
Better than the sleepy scares I've had of him before. Dead wife with dead eyes glaring down at me as he slowly creaks onto the bed. Live wife innocent and lovely, singing church songs at my side, while his eyes tell me frightening stories of wanting. So much better than being awake and wondering what is wanted, which part of me is real and which is simply a misguided accusation.
There are always the other ones, which have a angry stranger, that sometimes I believe I know, but really, he is just for my sister. He watched me from a third story window, and we made love on an old mattress. I was torn up by his madness, burnt by the joint pressed between finger and thumb. Waking up in a sweat, trying to swallow, listening to his shallow breathing like a breath of fresh air through my phone. He asked me once if that poem was about me, I lied, and said no.
Again, three nights ago I sat against this wrong lap, kissed those sad lips, and wanted something different than what I know. I hate waking up disfigured, and yet I can never run away from sleep.
Someday, when I'm away from all these hauntings, and my body falls into dreams next to his maybe I'll never feel these tingling nightmares touch my mind again.
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