Liquid Dreams

Spaces spread out like breathing continents in my mind. Everywhere I look I see ceaseless echoes of white walls, unfettered of smudges, distractions or meaning. It’s not as separate as a kiss that seeks to reinvent itself. Or a certain yearning that, by virtue of duplication, validates itself into a tactile reality. I walk the streets silhouetted by constellations of vacancies—clouds bereft of consequence shadow every weightless step. Even sleep descends evenly, self-assured, like a summer afternoon that refuses to yield to any shape of interruptions. Somewhere down the hall tonight, a karaoke shrieks off key self-affirmations of love penned by drugged up rockers trying to make sense of fame and pain. I twist the knob, dissolve into my unlit apartment, slide into linens, and, lulled by sentimental screams of lyrics flooding the hallways, I drift into unconsciousness, murmuring a name. Its syllables ripple like liquid dreams, half-whispered pirouettes trapped in momentary coals of midnight.