My dreams have been startlingly sad lately. I choose to think this the result of the new, sleep-inducing medication I've been prescribed.
Last night after I closed my eyes I desperately wandered a nameless New York metro station, rocking forward on tippy-toes looking for a tall figure in the crowd. Wandered into an underground symphony hall where a beautiful orchestra was practicing Brahms. I sat alone in the huge theatre and began to weep into my bag of candy. I tried to call out a request for Sibelius but my voice wouldn't emit anything but a pale squeak.
When the orchestra took an intermission from rehearsal, I stared into the familiar brown eyes of a cellist and my heart didn't flutter but stung like bitten fingers; itched like a new sunburn. We leaned in and didn't kiss but breathed gently into one another. He pressed two new HB pencils into my open palm and then I was alone in the metro again as trains rushed by.
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