I dreamed of it. Blanketed beds in an attic that was mine and not mine. A loft in the loft, narrow ladder-stair ascending to one final bed. Sleep upon sleep, comfort upon comfort, and there in confusion stood I. The woman I adore stood there too. I don’t know how she got inside, but she followed me close. I awoke, and she sat in my several liminal thoughts before I drifted back to sleep. The attic again. So many beds. She was near me again. Real life is not so graceful. I looked at a bed, and it was a conduit. I awoke again, for just a second, and I swear I still felt her. Back to sleep. Back to the beds. We did not lay ourselves down – my dream avoided this – but we stood, so close, that I wish this place would appear for real. When I woke up for good, she was not there. She had retreated to that attic in my thoughts, to the hidden loft in my brain, where she sleeps in the highest bed and dreams of me, standing near a bed in an attic in her mind.
The Opportunistic Poet 
One of my running gags to certain friends is, “GO TO BED!” I’ll explain later! But this poem made me feel so much more than a reminder. When it comes to poetry or emotional settings, I’ve always loved “attic”, I’ve always loved “bed”, and combining them in a haunting, emotional way is just beautiful to me. 😀
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