head against pillow

head against pillow, where reality (obscurity?) suddenly becomes the lucidity of a dream. float down five flights of stairs into the dripping golden elixir of light that slips through unyielding doors and windows. the confines of ability stretched to their extent; walking along the once-deserted sidewalk holding hands with a man who died eight years ago on a chilly februrary evening much like this. but instead throw on a sundress and grace the snow-covered grass: white-on-white with alabaster leather sandals (the ones that broke and were fed to the dumpster in the alleyway across from a place called home). even if the houses have swapped positions, and those garden flowers now stand azaleas, primroses, violets; not primroses, violets, azaleas. perhaps a little something is not right. but why question when flying is just so much more rewarding; to touch the dewy atmosphere before it can even find its way to the earth. feel the beauty in the strangeness — the questionable fate of fantastical slumber- thoughts (oh, don’t recognize what this really may be). play just a little longer in the outstretched fields just like the outstretched arms of a lover who never even had a chance to love. fields that have now been frosted twice over, icicles sewing a fringe on the brightest-of-the-bright yellow fabric of that dress. but it’s not cold, it’s just a dream. and small realizations punch holes in construction paper happiness; little stars that only shine when held up to the dripping golden elixir of light that slips through unyielding doors and windows. rapid eye movement disruption, eruption of tears that fall on the sheets so soft yet lacking. this sad, sad world, where no one can fly, and the mystery of absence is so much more painful than the mystery of a jumbled-up dream sequence. even if potted plants are out of order and the seasons clash with clothing, those are tremendously easier to ignore than a great looming chasm of loneliness on the right side of the bed. empty.