I sleep in a city by the water, with inclines up and down, arbitrarily placed amidst the paved pathways winding through narrow streets. Each night, as I sleep, I walk past our little China Town, where the people work hard, and are always helpful, and make sure your groceries get to you on time. People that I know I do not know greet me as they cycle by, shiny red blurs underneath the weight of blacks, greys, greens, khakis. I walk up a narrow staircase to an apartment I know from my time in New York. How I managed to find it in this coastal slumberville, I cannot say, but it feels like home, so I am glad to share the feeling.
She had eyes that made you feel loved, and a heart that made the earth swallow you whole. As he held her tummy to tummy, she still brought to him the smell of the riverbed where they had decided to lose each other to find themselves. He kissed her brow, and settled back on his knees, cradling her cheek to cheek.
"Seven years is a hard stretch of time."
He nodded, still not sure of what he would say. What could he say? That he'd still not found himself? That he was rather better off having found her than looking for himself? He held his peace, and gave it her name every chance he got.
I awake, only to be unsure of where I have found myself. The water has chopped and churned itself into a cityscape, dull lights wading through the grey smog of a winter morning. On my bedside table, there sits a note:
"Thank you for everything. You will always be my favourite, even when we're lost at sea."
So I return to sleep, to search the waters for what we've lost.