This could become a problem. The dreams. Vivid, technicolour dreams. Last night’s a train, and a backpack. And your words etched in pen on a mirror, for some reason. The words taken right from my saddest place. Saturday’s? Long, slow kisses. The week before? A conversation on a precipice. Rambling words rusting in the moonlight. The dreams. Like ghosts. Not every night. But often. More than you’d expect. There you are. Talking to me. Touching me. In the shifting spaces. Between one place and another. And I wonder when you’ll go. Let me go. Let me sleep.