Sleep Talker.

This curtained corner of the world is asleep. Yet still she implores me with scratched-face, rubbed-eyes, arms held out and laughter bursting forth. Neither a dream nor memory, a mockery of each which haunts me every night.

Perhaps too tired, too stressed, too deep in sleep to contain her dreams, instead they spill out and confront me in pleading voice:

‘I don’t understand, I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’