rooms that could be real

in my dreams I share my shoebox room once more with another one I miss and cannot hold. they take the top bunk and I lie beneath, though we laugh all through the night. I want to believe there’s something more exciting that I just can’t quite remember, as though I could use the stories I tell sleeping to revive the ego and breathe life into the carcass of the thought that my mind is still remarkable. there is always greed for more. some dreams are nights that could have been in rooms that could be real. nothing really happens but we’re happy and that must be worth something.

I leave the office to buy the drink I learn to like to stay awake. at my desk I complain about the taste and how I miss the old barista though I never even knew their name. what used to make me shiver fuels my focus on the screen. I follow the shapes of the letters and numbers and the webs they craft to pull shreds of meaning from the taps of those they’re said to represent. there are new forms attached to emails and requests for more information: I respond with what I know and wait for the questions to come.

at night I indulge the parasite and reach for my own questions left unanswered. pulling one from the highest shelf brings the whole thing crashing down and I am covered in the dust and weight of where and who I’ve been. I map memories and dreams like stars on the ceiling, just as wonderful and impossible to ever hold again. on my pillow I harbour the privilege to mourn my own potential until it makes me sick. I open my phone and wake up. how many children will they kill while I sleep through the rain?