The Walks of Dreams
Walt Whitman stood in the corner of the room. I was staring at the red curtains behind him when he began his recitation. Someone reached out and brushed the hair from my face. Another hand ran along my hips and legs. My back was pressed against a hard metal frame. Kinetic energy radiated upwards. It sizzled as it grazed my spine.
Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams…
Walt raised the curtains and unleashed a blinding illumination into the room. I stared until firm hands turned me away from it. It was John, a pensive expression over his face. “Where have you been?”
“She’s been here with me,” said the woman playing with my hair. Her hair cascaded down her back with thin braids hidden within. My eyes moved over her stomach. Over his long torso. The temperature in the bed rose several degrees. Walt moved to the foot of the bed. I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands…
I was covered in kisses. But my lips were failing. They whispered their secrets and my body capsized into an ocean of memories.
I whisper with my lips close to your ear.
I looked to Walt for reassurance. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem. He crossed his arms. A tiny red hot particle jumped near our feet. As it devoured the sheets, the lovers moved in the direction of the mounting flames. They beckoned me over, but I could only see the gleam in their eyes. I was seized by doubt.
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you…
As time elapsed the discord of this familiar terrain deepened. The curtains vanished. A flash of Walt tipping his hat and leaving through a camouflaged door. The bed was covered in angry flames. The lovers were gone. I waited for the flames to consume me, but they merely discharged rhythmic maneuvers near my body.