She Has Different Dreams
It’s not that I can’t sleep. I choose not to.
If I got in bed, if I turned off the light, if I took my glasses off, I would fall fast asleep.
I would dream. My mind would project movies onto my eyelids, where you and I were cuddled up next to each other, and I could kiss your head, and I was smooth, my knees didn’t buckle. But I’m awake, and they do. I’m awake, and we’re not. I’m awake, and I’m ugly, and you’re still pretty.
My face agrees. It drags and slows. My blinks slow to blunks and slow to blonks and now they’re just shut. I shake it off, with paradise again lying a pillow away.
This is insanity. Surely all normal people are sleeping. You have to be! I hope you are, because you don’t respond. This shouldn’t worry me, normal people are sleeping.
What do you dream of? I think in your dreams you fly. All over the world. Seeing every single person do every single thing, and they don’t know you’re up there watching. That’s nice.
Fine. I’ll sleep. Maybe we can meet up, in our dreams, if you happen to fly over me. Just stop in, I only want to say hi. Maybe you can crawl in my bed, maybe I can kiss your head again. But why would you if you can fly.
