They were there to rescue me,
and you may ask, what from?
The bent doorframe isn't much
of an indicator unless you look closely.
All of the other nicks on the wall
have been covered with plaster.
But they know about my dreams.
The weight of floating on the surface
and the threat of being dragged below,
stones in my pocket, faceless creatures
circling near my ankles.
They know I wake in a daze,
asking if anyone else heard the
muffled screams, or was that just me?
I never hear their answer,
though I catch traces of their
cologne in the doorway -
spice and bergamot
hitting me with nostalgia
for a place I can never go.
I created a story for them,
and often, I wonder if they
will ever exist outside the
infinite roads of my imagination.
