the Lover, the Liar, and I
Every night I have the same dream.
I am in a room, and the room is the sky. The moon and the stars and the clouds are made by hand out of paper and dangle on strings hanging from the ceiling, or but it’s not really the ceiling, it’s more like a beam that exists just so that the moon and the stars and the clouds can hang from it. This room, the sky, is very still, very quiet. I can walk there as long as I want, marveling at the moon or the stillness. I can hang from the beam like I am a star and look down and my feet are nowhere near the floor (I feel like I can fly).
Every night, the same dream. The same room, the same sky. Maybe sometimes I will hang like a star for a long time, and other times I will turn my face upwards and let the wooly clouds brush against my face. The details may shift slightly every time I go to this place, but one thing remains the same: right before I wake and return to earth, I stretch my arm upwards. I grab a solitary golden star and put it in my pocket for you.
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