The morning was so hot she felt as if she would melt into it. Dreams had already dislodged themselves into reality like books tumbling from shelves; where did one end and the other begin? In her dream she was scaling the insurmountable face of the small hand of a clock. But it wasn’t a normal clock– it was the moon and each minute ticked with the spinning of the earth– a 24 hour tick, barely discernible in movement. In her dream she climbed for centuries, millennia,  and never reached the pointed black surface of time. She slid out of bed like liquefied icecream, into the heat of the day.

The air was thick with feeling and she waded through it as best she could. She felt saturated by memories in the waking world. Instead of a shower she decided she needed to dry out. She stepped outside, a wet sponge, and looked toward the sky. The moon was still out, a pale orb against an expanse of blue, and it made her mind drift to telescopes and tracking pocked craters of that bone bowl on sleepless nights, of hoping to spot shooting stars and wishing that ephemeral wasn’t in his vocabulary as she counted stars millions of light years away.

*painting, Without Hope by Frida Kahlo


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