The Absent Dream

Down in those depths that I don’t care to visit, I find him. He waits, a casual smirk growing into his otherwise still expression, mulled down by his malicious stare. He watches as I shift uncomfortably, very aware that I myself have opted to come. He stands, mere feet from a dark and gaping hole, carved jaggedly in a rocky concave. I stand in a light, a thin and bleak halo, cast from a place that I no longer remember. I twist my fingers and ball my hands into fists. I sweat. He stifles a snicker. He knows that I am waiting too. Waiting for him to say something. To tell me what I want to hear. And we both know what happens next.

Late at night, I lie, face up, in my room. I stare at the ceiling and count the tiles there. I shift in that dark that can only come after all the world has fallen asleep. And I ask myself the question. Again and again. Over and over. And I always hear the same voice. I always hear the same answer. And it comes from the place that it wasn’t supposed to. And it comes from the place that isn’t above.

And I say to myself, "Goodnight."

A guy