Nothing is moving tonight, the air is utterly still A vacuum- it is the milkman’s hour but not even the static whizz of his battery disturbs us Everything is steeped in silence, there are dusters in the ***** pipes I open the window looking for a draft but even the street outside is flattened by it It weighs all around, we are like dried leaves pressed between pages in a forgotten book Where has everything gone?
I drift back to the edge of my dreams for a moment and in the corner my therapist sits- *****, grey and cold as death she watches. To her right is a tall walnut wardrobe, like the one in great grandma’s back room that held all the monsters as a child Then its heavy weight suddenly lurches across the floor, a wrench and scrawl of noise then it tumbles in thunder and I jolt awake as it races up the stairs to my door What is it? Hiding under the silence Now the house is hot and heavy as ever, and I open more windows And reluctantly the air moves a little but still I can’t sleep