Midnight.

Those dreams, the ones I have where we chase to the cliff and plummet. I am tried of waking up, sweating and grasping when I know that the precipice is imaginary. The dreams that used to be, a smiling mouth, gap-toothed, like an aging cemetery, shook me awoke. I could be reassured by a simple flick of the tongue,

that I was secure. Now, as a lay, clasping the edge of the mattress, in a moment devoid of passion, but wrecking of animal, I wonder what is true and false. Lately, I have lain awake, listening for the familiar reassurance of the city buses, announcing our cross streets. I know, then, that I have two feet, and am grounded. If the bus does not come, I listen for the rustle of leaves, as a car drives by. If there is no car, I hope for a dog.

If there is no dog, I begin to drift surrealist, into a world of walking clocks, and men without faces. You still have your back to me, already shaken and mummified again, from the moment I jolted off the edge of the quilt, inches from the floor.

I repeat and repeat that I am alive. And well. The words mean nothing, when I cannot see the outline of the room.