NaBloPoMo, Day 11: The Adjacent Sleeper

Dreamer, dreamer — you scant show vital signs. But if my eyes could see into your mind, my vision’d be beset by the technicolor of your closed-eye hallucinations. Dreams. The things which live when you have no memory and die when it returns. They are the currency of slumber, and the window into the heart.
Do you dream of me? As I of you, do you reach out for me, in perpetual chase of love. For it’s a miserable fantasy when we are apart, and a wonderful dream when you lie awake beside me.

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