This is the dream where the streets have sunk into the clouds and lampposts peer out of the fog like lonesome lighthouses and in the middle of the night there is a soft knock on the door and I come down half asleep and there you are standing in the mist with your hands in your pockets and there is something wrong with your face. In the dim orange glow of the lighthouses I can see only the outline of your hair and chin and without a word you come inside and go to my room where you lie on the floor and sleep under the blue tides of moonlight until the clouds return to the sky.
Only it wasn’t a dream and when I woke up there were bloodstains on the carpet where your face was turned but you were already gone.
Advertisement
