[dreams]

I wake up in graduated steps, eyes still sleep-burred and brain mossed over, fine and green. My dreams are normally difficult to shake aside after I've risen to the surface of conciousness. On a good day, it takes me at least twenty minutes to fully comprehend reality. On a bad day, it's a case of the bends.

This morning, I dreamt of you. You and I standing in a closet with the door shut, peering through the slats at an empty, darkened room. The hallway light threw strange shadow patterns across the carpet and you leaned to my ear to whisper someone else's words, twining your fingers companionably through mine.

Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.

You wrung the neck of a whiskey bottle before handing it over. The slow, secret burn down my throat is what eventually woke me up. I miss your face, my friend; our nights of wine and song are distant, growing colder by the hour.

I can only hope your city treats you well.