Dreams & 7pm*

You’re telling me about your dreams, excited and concentrated. I listen. All ears and wide eyes. I like listening to your dreams. Or maybe, I like listening to you describe them. I like watching you all lost and tangled in your thoughts from last night’s slumber party your wicked dreams decided to throw you. In the morning, You wake up, still dozed, drowsy, snoozy. Going all out to swim to the sobriety shore. Eyelids still heavy, trying so hard to remember your dreams. Going over them in your head a couple of times, so you don’t forget. Attaching meaning, deciphering symbols and signs and looking for clues. Lifting the heaviness of your eyelids so you don’t forget. Don’t forget your last night’s dreams. I still have to hear them, after all. I watch you talk. You look like 7pm on a cold winter day. You look like the sky seconds before it goes dark. You look like hours before bedtime. The cold you can feel in the sky. Shivers the evening of late November gives you.

Fast forward I am sitting in my empty, empty room. Wearing my empty, empty clothes. Living lives of empty souls. Sense of heaviness, shortness of breath — all these things that fill up the whole room, your head, your lungs — and still, so empty. I open my windows and feel the crisp, cold air of almost December. Familiarity visits me from my open window. I remember your dreams before I go search for mine. Waking up, I have to find my breath first. Second, I have to find where I am. Third, still snoozy, drowsy, sleepy, lifting heaviness of my eyelids, I have to remember my dreams. After all, you still have to hear about them.