The color of God that lived happily in the sky for four happy days has run away. Its vanilla breath lingers yet in my mind, its long-ago leaves rushing past my face; too ancient and too whimsical to hold. Oh, but the sweet transient fragrance still tingles in my nostrils; pins and needles in my head, a heavy, dizzy, meandering weightlessness.

The crows cried on that fourth day, screaming murderous, desperate wishes to the collapsing air: "No! No! Do not leave us alone!" The circles they flew over my head were hypnotizing, a mad cycle of hopeless movement and shouts, trying to perpetuate a dream.

I had a dream... I had a dream that we were running through an airport and I was pulling on your arm, hard, holding on as if an apocalypse awaited our disconnection. Our bodies were pulsing and shaking with the anxiety of impending grief. I felt it wrinkle through my panting face, I saw it in a glimpse back to yours, I felt it in my scissor-legs cutting through lines and frantically searching, blinded by numbers and people and luggage. The brush of that approaching separation, the doom at our fingertips, it drove, pushed, prodded us onward in a frenetic, insane way. Every face and figure a blur, we tripped across floors, running...

It struck a nerve. It really struck a fucking nerve. It has been nearly a week now, but between every voice hides that soundless, hectic dream, almost a whisper in my ears, but too slippery and too flimsy to hear. My thoughts chase after it, inventing and inventing like slow animals bumbling about every which way. I am confused; what to say? Where to put myself? I feel too big and awkward to fit anywhere, a mess of pointless limbs.

I tried to invent an escape. Contemplating the water, I found new dreams... dreams of drowning in each folded ripple, dreams migrating about me... away and back again, moving against my flesh like soft blankets soothing me into that sleep. That content sleep. I want to be free. I want to be free of this face and its crumpling, free of lockered hallways, free of curtains and televisions and these backward feet. Free to roam this lovely tectonic field teeming with hums and rattles, free to roll over it all, free. Free in the wind, free atop a bicycle seat, free living in a treehouse. I wish I could have written you this letter.

I'm sorry.

Eva,
what was the feeling was it that i was leaving you or that we were leaving together? and if your apoligizing to me u dont have to becuse u wrote this...so thank u for shareing your bad dream with me.