Sheets fly from my body in the night. I am left naked and shivering.
Forces like the wind I can not deny; the window will rise by my hand unconsciously. The cold air will be a ghost, moving me.
In sleep I may seize fire in a dream, whilst my skin prickles under chill breath. What monsters slither round my legs while I rest? What words do walls whisper while I take cover from the living day?
Curtains fly from their rods in the night. I am left revealed and shivering.
Jackals give sharp howls as they fall upon my fine dresses, having escaped from my drawers whilst I slumbered and had nightmare. The savage rips of linen and lace, die in the dark without echo; what is eaten is secreted until living day.
Papers from my desk fly in the night. Ink spills. Poems are wrecked and wounded.
When I wake, I know nothing of the events. Only the coolness of the morning.
Only arrhythmia. My paleness. Blue lips and toes.