he moves quietly through the room, so as not to wake me, i think. he bends down to pick up his clothes, he doesn’t rise again.
i dream. i shudder awake in a sweat; pain. i never know the time of night, the room’s unchanging sick glow from the streetlight through the curtains. it is the same darkness and different every time, like the spaces between the shadows have shrunk. i take off my clothes to relieve the all pain i’ve been collecting. i remain awake, restless until at last i give in and take my medicine and drive myself back into sleep. i wake up.
i’m on the other side of the room, i take my medicine again. i’m not naked anymore, have i taken my medicine earlier? it is morning, or is it night? when i’m locked in his arms, his sleep sets me free of the light,
negotiating with this pain in a dream has as little success as trying to dissolve a familiar family squabble, it only seems to escalate.
such is the power of this pain; to even seep into the safety of unconsciousness and manipulate dreams with an unintentional risk of overdose.
separating the heavy from the light, not completely but a little; it makes me see the invisible in between again.
i sleep and sleep and imagine i’m sending all my waking energy to my sick father, like an empathic download; but instead i’m pissing on him, a bright golden liquid streams from my cock onto him where he lays in his hospital bed; since he stays in the same time zone, i sleep all day; why else would i wake so exhausted?
