My eyes are still heavy with last night's dreams and I feel as if I am submerged in the salt of the ocean. Like the water is tangling itself within my hair and bleeding into the fabric of my pajamas.
The world is still except for the rush of the cars on the street behind me. They are busy with the waves of the pavement and I am consumed in the waves of my thoughts.
It is as if the tide isn't really there, I am calmly drifting towards the shore with no push or pull of the white foam that kisses my fingertips.
The moon must've been asleep, too. His work is unfinished.
I lay with the softest puffs of air filling my chest, every breath is sweet and small.
I awake to a cold room.
I could have sworn it was warmer the night before.
I remember pulling the sheets down past my legs, shifting around in the heat of the dark. But it could have all just been a dream, that gasp of hot air. I could've imagined it.
Heat never lasts long here.
The cold sting of reality is often an immediate remedy.
I let my eyes search for the remnants of sleep tickling the ends of my eyelashes, like a dandelion seed moving with the wind against a grass field.
This bed is colder than I remembered it to be.
Bigger, colder, emptier.
But I find sleep anyway.
Or rather, it finds me.
We are better friends than most of the people I share daylight with.
Much better friends.
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