for the dreaming
Dreamlike, off-kilter tales where the ordinary rules of the night bend.
The notification came at 1:53. It's her birthday, wish her well. She's been dead since October.
I've lived in this apartment four years, but at two in the morning it still feels borrowed, like somewhere I'm only staying.
2:48, then 2:48 again. The night isn't moving the way it should, and I'm afraid to look away from the clock.
Three a.m., the stain shaped like nothing, and a room that quietly rearranges itself while I lie here not sleeping.