12/29

I'm under a blanket smoking cigarettes with a past lover.  Waves of grey fill the air on the light cast through the green comforter.  We breathe it in and out and in again.

And I'm pretty sure this is a dream.  It feels like a dream.

It would explain the other lady present.  The one that doesn't look like someone I've slept with.  The one that doesn't quite match up with any significant figure in my life.  Surely, no one with which I'd share my bed (this is my bed, right?) and my cigarettes under my own comforter (again, mine?).  

But I'm not completely sure, so we all simply laugh and puff away.  On the bed that stretches for miles.  Fire hazards?  Health risks?  These aren't concerns of ours.  Only laughter.  And we have that covered.  With the smiles imprinted so blissfully in my memory.

And there's some reason I must leave.  There has to be.  To part with such lovely and jovial women.  As I raise the blanket and watch the smoke plague the room.  Pour up and out.  Free.  So very free. 

And I travel to unfamiliar settings.  I move to terrains unexplained before being jostled awake.  Before alarms are buzzing and beeping and alerting and summoning me to a place where there might be less smoke - but surely less smiles.  And I want more smiles.