Paper Moons & Midnight Wings

Sleep takes me sideways,

not down, not inward,

but into a river of color where the noise of the world fractures into prisms.

The clocks melt first, their hands dripping like honey into the mouths of birds who sing in languages I almost remember.

Buildings fold like paper swans.

Highways turn to silver serpents, curling through skies painted with forgotten names.

Somewhere, a train made of laughter climbs to the moon,

and I climb with it, my body dissolving into the smoke of its engine.

In dreams, I am untethered.

Noise cannot find me here, it tries,

but its nails break on clouds that taste like crushed violets.

I slip into forests that breathe, into oceans that hang upside down,

and into conversations with shadows who tell me truths too sharp for waking ears.

The further I fall, the lighter I become

my skin unzipping, my bones scattering into constellations.

I am nothing but shimmer here,

a hallucination of myself, a ember dancing at the edge of silence.

Even though when I wake, the noise will come rushing back

for now, I am gone.

For now, I am elsewhere.

For now, I am free.