I had a dream last night that we were walking, you and I, around a large house of white hallways and crown molding. There were doors, too, so many doors.
You spoke to me of days gone by, of details that didn't merit repeating. I searched the faces of the people we passed — modern dancers, barefoot and brightly costumed; old men, smoking cigars, fedoras atop their silvered heads; friends, staring mindlessly into nothingness, headphones fused to their ears. These people did not belong in the house. But it seemed, neither did I.
My chest tightened as you spoke, a frustration and nervousness filled my ribs with lead. I did not want to hear what I already knew, but I waited for you to finish, so I could ask a question.
I never did ask that question.
Your every pause for breath left me scrambling for sentence structure, only opening my mouth to have you fill it with more unwanted words. Every opportunity of an empty hallway was stripped away as a corner was turned to reveal unwelcome faces, peeling away my confidence.
I just wanted to know why.
Awaking from the dream was a relief, to escape the eyes of strangers, the maze of hallways, the ceaseless ramblings pouring from your lips. But as I laid silent, cheek pressed into a cheap, green pillowcase, dissatisfaction surged through my limbs. Why could I not ask it? Why would you not tell me?
And why, why did I not open any of those doors?
So many doors.