dream sequence

i am walking a bridge made of guitar
strings made of guts. over a gorge.
back in my hotel room there are lamps
in the bathtub. the place is ransacked and
i think it was me. sleep
i need sleep. no blankets no sheets just a
mattress on the ground. blood rushes
from a slit down my forearm. i am weak
no words to speak no tears upon my
cheek. nobody around. i pick up the old
phone wrap the cord around my arm
restless to remember your number. i call you.
the tone of each ring holds a promise.


#katyamills

dream sequence. march nine

What if I cannot live with anyone, ever again, I thought to myself, before falling asleep. I have been tired since I asked him politely to leave. He did not take it very well, and I did not take his not taking it well, well. I was tired by trying to share my space, and by trying not to share my space, and fell fast asleep.

Up the stairs the atmosphere was boisterous, everyone seemed happy like evolved, and my mind kept turning us over and over, wondering why we were so quiet, down here, so reserved, like somebody had died. I was in the midstream (exactly halfway up a long and straight stairwell) when the matron of the house came about before bed asking around and offering her hand, to make the last hour a good one, keeping us safe and needless, tidying up.

Her daughter, my friend, had left a small book behind, with a cover splashed in pink, which stood up on the floor by the couch. What if she never returns, ever again? The book had small truths littered about its pages. I wanted to offer it to the contemplative boy across from me on a broken chair, but I could not move. I'm not much of a lucid dreamer.

She spoke to us kindly, my friend's mom, she made me feel I was helping her just by being there. She had always been the kind to illuminate your presence for you. When I awoke, I wondered would I see her, ever again? She died many years before.