In my dream I can feel her. She is in the next room over—just across that threshold. Anything can happen before the crossing, but after, everything is set neatly in stone.
I forget she is there; lying in a bed, awaiting, atomb in hopeful blindness for some king—or a prince at least.
While I clamor pots and pans about and compose my days of busyness and noise, of nonsense and ramblings over the variegated meanings of life found in the tail feathers of the male peacock, she awaits this same bright-plumed idiot she’s dreamt up in all that time spent on her back, thinking —no— wishing him a hero, a dragon slayer.
I near the threshold again and the smelling salts of fear and infinity strike my nostrils with consciousness. A midnight and moonlit glimpse of her cracks through my mind, like a strong thunder unnerves even the boldest hound. Would I trade her that place in the bed? Is that mattress not stuffed with feathers just like mine?
I must awaken from this dream and return to my own sleep. A different dream, a different room, a meal bereft of salts. A meatless feast without dessert. A lonely room. A shut door. A preservation in as much, and a solar stare despite the beauty of the gorgeous moon.