We took shelter in a shape-shifting greenhouse at the forest’s gates. Got lost on our way there, riding sandstone waves until they pulled us under. Inside the underwater passageways, neon lights blazed like wildfire, they were telling us about the deep green of hummingbirds: the key to turn on the music box is to hum each colour’s secret name.
The glasshouse is dripping rain, but inside nightingales lead choirs. The music box, now unlocked, hosts a ball inside the mirrors. Handcrafted ballerinas shake it shake it to the LIGHT. And yet, we always dance the slow ones with the Past, dragging our feet at every step.
All is seen through the looking glass, I think of the raspberry valleys and the ripples in our eyes. Tales of fortune from Middle-earth, where amid queens and moons the lovers lay. I sense the cards before I cast them, like those who can fore-smell snow.
I hold a lake of wildflowers in my hands and I carry it to her door. She has fireworks popping in the microwave when I finally come home.
Oneironaut stories 