I think I had a dream where I flew too high. Only noticeable in its queerness since I’ve never dreamt of flying before. I woke up out of breath and traced the line down my lovers spine, listening to him sleep.
I remember waking up in other cities, with different coloured sheets, different windows. Like a stray taking sleep where I could find it and eating by street corners out of styrofoam boxes. Fast, so I could join the other creatures, never wanting to miss out.
I try to go back to sleep, finding my centre. Resting my hands on my stomach and listening to the rush of blood. It’s hard to imagine living somewhere else now. I’ve woven strands of my hair into these walls and sung my songs into the windows. I fall asleep to the sound of the 2: 42 buss, leaning my forehead against his back.