i came to you on an october night and sat with you on your brown couch against the window, the same couch that used to collect dust in your mom’s basement when you were nowhere to be found. the room sat in silence as the swirls of burning incense lazily circulated the room, like a tired out tornado ready to go home. we felt responsible with heavy words sitting on our chests, ready to burst out of our mouths like a flame captivated from a lion’s soul.
you finally looked at me, with heavy eyelids and a weak voice, and asked:
“if you had a lot of nightmares and was given the option to stop dreaming forever, would you do it?”
i didn’t answer. because we both know there’s no peaceful way to escape a flame. you gotta put out the fire slowly because if you do it all at once, smoke will take over the room and your reasons for putting out the fire will become hazy.
Photos by Kohl Murdock