Illustration by Erin Cullinane
Words by Megan Martin

From the four upper corners of a small, four-cornered room
Rested a thin, quiet Darkness.
With curtains drawn
Light seeped through a sliver of uncovered glass on a windowpane.
Pain, thick in its despondence,
Black in its shade,
Occupied this perfectly square space and sat squat
Unmoving
Welcomed by its hostess

She slept
Deeply and soundly,
Escaping into dreams that escaped into nightmares
Filled with faceless intruders
Halls so poorly lit that she was forced to walk
A blind man’s pace, arms extended
As she fumbled and felt her way
Down the unforeseeable future.
And then, there were dreams of him.

It was a year since that time at Atlantic Station,
She saw him
Only by chance, as they passed like two ships –
Or a dingy and a lifeboat –
Sailing through the underground
On their ways elsewhere.
The subway doors opened and he was there.
Smiling.
Waiting, in unexpected anticipation.
They laughed and hugged and continued on
To their next destination.
Why didn’t you kiss me?
He asked.

Today, she dreamt of this moment.
The subway doors opened and he was there,
Waiting,
With pure intention to see her,
Maybe before leaving for a long journey.
Bag-less, weightless, wanderlust.
His sights were farther than ever before.
He had places to go and people to see.
He wanted her to know that,
He always wanted her to know that.
This would be but a passing moment, like before,
But he had to see her.

His body was in perfect form,
Cheeks and chin chiseled and masculine.
Eyes piercing – kind and warm,
Dark, infinite pools.

The subway doors shut, carrying her away without a word.
He was gone.

The thin Darkness lingered at the top of the room,
Casting a heavy shadow
Across the ceiling and cascading down the walls
Like dripping thick globs of paint
Slowly…
Making its way to the floor.

She shook herself out of slumber,
Squeezing her hand to awaken
From car chases, unfinished piers, diamond filled oceans and insurgents disguised as friends –
Subconscious realities that only thrived in the witching hours.
Forcing herself up,
Lurching forward to sit
And peered longingly towards
The crack of sunlight.