Of Sleep And Dreams
Dawn arrives with your thighs framing my face, your cunt painting my mouth slick.
It’s not that I don’t sleep, it’s how I sleep, how I dream. What I dream. You consume me, and I don’t know why you feel so close in that liminal space between dream and the suspension of—no, not consciousness, but the threshold of it. Hypnopompia, they call it, that state where dream-logic lingers after waking, where sensations from the dream sometimes bleed into reality. Or fucking better, where it’s reality that tries t...