The first rule of the open door is someone must walk through it. Someone has to slide off that bench and find a new seat, lean their head against the cool glass and sleep across time zones and hillsides, rows of corn running alongside.
I dreamt of that place, I shouldn't say again because I don't count myself a liar. But the table was set, wine poured and that dog wouldn't hunt.
The sidewalks ran with the moonlight of one thousand doorknobs, teeth of hungry doorways calling to be filled, to be necessary. All the orange flowers covered my grave that night. Branches shuddered with the blackness of one hundred crows, the moon just slivers of leftover cheesecake crumbling down into the spines of hotel bibels and ****** veins of the orchard's nectarines. And the clouds beat their knuckles against the coming night until their passion bled out onto the bleached white sheets on their chests, all purple and red and blue and bruised.
A colossal stillness hushed its way across the swaying seashore.