I drift slowly along through this sleeping house,
careful to avoid touching the doorknobs.
They weirdly glow and pulse like beacons
leading to other rooms, rooms that expand out
to mysterious places, strange rooms in realms
without any perceivable beginning or end.
The soul never sleeps, sometimes it goes to places
we vaguely remember, lingers in the subconscious
until we wake up in the morning and then forget.
Let the amazing and fantastic wait, it is enough
to just float down the hall as if I were a ghost,
intoxicated by the odd ethereal sounds
my wandering movements make.
Yes, I must be a ghost, a pale phantom of light
stealthily traveling through those subtle venues,
because it seems I remember little if anything,
and maybe after all it’s best that I don’t.
For the sake of forgetting and remembering,
I set my trust in emptiness aside for a moment,
a frozen moment which doesn’t begin nor end.
The universe itself is playful in its own way —
it is not going anywhere, and neither am I,
though I seem to wander in this dream.
Then sometimes I feel you beside me, moving
in your sleep, and it doesn’t matter which world
it is, or what time it is supposed to be.
I forget all that, I just forget it.
I wonder if you realize what it means to me —
that you are here, sleeping quietly next to me,
yet moving inexorably towards that place
which we have never left.