The ceiling is made of stars. Dewdrops of light, shifting over a sky of mosquito nets, dancing the dark spaces in-between where ink-filled needles pierce their embryonic hearts. And so they come undone, from the inside out, in a quickfire burst of white and red and indigo--and there are so very many of them, these stars: thousands on thousands, born only to die and then be reborn, all in the span of a few dozen heartbeats. How I wonder what you are, twinkling black hole supernovae. And as my fingers try to trace their little lives, the dance goes on, and on and on, just outside of my reach, even when I stand on tippy toes, stretching my whole body like an angel bound to an uncoiled spring, only to fall back again, empty-handed.

And perhaps the ceiling has become my looking glass, and these stars no less than a reflection of myself: a continuation of that same reflection I saw in your eyes, last night when you looked at me, when you asked me to dance, when I wanted you to--

kiss me...

And in that moment when you unbound the ribbon from my hair, I think you unbound my mind as well. And ever since then, the other, that voice in my head--your voice in my head--has been silent. Perhaps it escaped through the cracks in my brain alongside all the stars. And perhaps I should be up there among them, rather than they in here, among me, caged too long to sing. I might run away, like a fairytale self; go looking for a door to match the key you gave me, even though...

You never did tell me your name.

There is a man in the room, his form marked only by an absence of light in the space beneath the window. I don't think I know him, not like I somehow know you, but he must know me, or think that he does; the liberties he's been taking with his fingers and tongue seemed to make it a fact, even though I had forgotten. But now that world is fading back into his shadow, red tides receding over black and silver, and in such a reflection I think I can see that I am no mere sleeping beauty stretched across her couch to await some faceless prince's salvation.

And the key is cold and smooth against my skin, though I haven't let it go free since you pressed it to my palm. Am I the blood that flows through its greeny veins? I think I see a face there, I think I hear a song. And that song, like you, dances through my memory, all claws and petals and thorny wires thrown together by the storm.

But the next time I come for you, you will be ready.

I drink deep the promise like a jagged vial of poison, toasting your echo. Swallow all the shadows, then discover the door, always waiting on the edge of the void. I find hints of myself only inside oblivion; dancing the dark spaces in-between, same as always. But this time conscious thought holds up a mirror. I replace the blood-stained shard fallen from the top right corner, and stare into my own eyes, so very awake.

The dream is finally over.