Shadows play games with unformed memories. Your sleepy danse macabre flicks ash from the music box. We are taking it in turns to be grotesque.
A witch flies upside-down in pursuit of her falling familiars. Beneath her, a crescent moon wraps around a cat retelling the past. Each time she passes she fails to grasp it.
But this is to discount jasmine outside our curtained window, lifting gently, tilting at its edges.
You keep dreaming through figures of eight, each one tighter until the knot is tangled. The last stars tense at the lips of your eyes.
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