Erica I

Eleven

This was written by my new friend, Kevin Sullivan: 

I don’t even dream anymore. I just actively think of you while I tell myself that I’m asleep. It plays out exactly as you’d expect:

My dark room becomes a sunset of pinks, purples, and golds as my memories flood the room with the sweet smell of your hair. It could just be the indentation you left next to my head, trapping all of the things I loved about the suffocating mess you heaved in my face night after night.

But no matter how many times I turn the pillow over, it never seems to fade.

My room turns into an ocean, and your body its waves. They envelope me; surround me; drown me. But I’m ok. I breathe you in with short gasps, never quite getting enough, but not quite giving up. I don’t try to tread, but just float there instead. I know I’ll survive each night.

Lately these dreams haven’t seemed so bright. My bed has become my coffin, the floor a wasteland stretched miles ahead. My feet become heavier with each step I have to take before I reach the door; to reach you anymore.

So I’ll lay here, thinking of the dreams I should be having; watching the sun set over and over as I barely survive the tide; straining my eyes to see the door across the mile long floor keeping me from seeing you; thinking of dreaming of seeing you once more.

Thank you, Kevin, for sharing your beautiful words. Friends, feel free to share your thoughts on Kevin’s piece.

To Be Continued,

B&B

5 thoughts on “Erica I

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