Things Not Dreamt Of

I never dream of flying. I've had almost every kind of dream, even some that turned out real, and often wake to the confused memories of two different worlds trying to sort each other out in my head, strange intertextual hybrids of language that make no sense sometimes scrawled out in the notepad beside the bed.

She shakes me awake, having got up to make the coffee. "Work."

It's 3 in the morning, so I know which job it is. I'm almost thankful, in a small way: I never recall dreams, unless I'm woken up from them directly.

I ask when the last time I woke to the alarm was and she just smiles wanly, tells me to take care and crawls back under the covers, hoping I won't see her fear -- every time I tell her I can't be hurt, she says there are wounds that aren't physical.

I open the window, not wanting to argue, the coffee a sour lump in my stomach. I've never been quite sure what it smells like to humans, but it wakes me up as well so I'm grateful for it. I take a breath, leap, hurling upwards into the sky, wishing I had a few spare moments to play tag with moonbeams in the crowds.

I wish I knew why I never dream of flight.