I had a dream.
A dream I spent sitting in the tall grass by the riverbank
sketching the birds that played there.
The boy was in my dream again.
He was sleeping, because he didn’t do it well enough at night.
The sunlight was trying the tickle him awake,
caressing his ribs.
They were bruised, like they always were.
I wanted to sketch him, in my dream.
But I was afraid he’d see it
so I didn’t.
I was shy, in my dream.
A naughty-little brain child crawled her way out of my head and scribbled on the walls with this one. Basically it’s inspiration for a story that I can’t stop thinking about. Like, seriously. It’s got my head under siege. I need to stop and focus. But focus is a runaway beast.