I cleaned my bed today. Shook the nightmares from the blankets. They
tumbled out and looked so much smaller than I thought they would.
I thought of calling you to tell you. But I’ve lost your
number and you never really used to pick up anyways. And the reception was
always never quite right between us and your voice would drop in and out like I
was hearing you through a seashell mingled in with the waves.
The window over my bed won’t shut anymore properly. I think
it’s from all of those times I dreamed of flying. I kept having to
open the latch to get back inside.
You said once that you dreamed of God at least once a week.
I dreamed of God last night and he looked just like you. Except that he was
made of glass. I wanted to reach out but couldn’t. What if there were scratches
on his surface?
Sometimes I can’t sleep at night. Sometimes I think there are
twenty things that I want to tell you all at once. Remember that time I said
that I thought my closet door wouldn’t shut right because there was a ghost
still inside? That’s not what I meant to tell you.
I meant to tell you that at night I’d sleep better if I could hear
you breathing. I meant to tell you that the way your voice sounds from far away
reminds me of closing my eyes as a child in the field when the sun fell on me
just right and I thought I’d live forever. I meant to tell you that when I fly
in dreams I sometimes forget that I can’t really do that. I meant to tell you
that I did reach out and only because he looked like you. I meant to tell you
everything all at once. I meant to tell you that when I shook the nightmares
out from my blankets, I wanted you to be beside me.
And now the bed is made and I sleep alone. But, at least, the
sheets are smooth and cool.