Brain Fog and a Dog

When the wind blows through the streets, through the thick curtains of old balconies, the dog barks to wake me up and I wearily swim out of my dreams.

The lights are on, but I feel the darkness. There’s a fog in my brain and an invisible visitor in my room.

I feel the gaze of the interloper.

“Can you see what I am afraid to see?” I ask the dog.

Nightmares leak. The fog thickens. The minutes slow down. Something I am afraid of stealthily crawls in the shadows. It waits, it waits. I hold my breath. The dog barks, but it doesn’t come out.

“Can you see what I am afraid to see?” I ask the dog.

The dog stares into thin air, waits by the door when there is no one there.

I am here, the dog is there. No one else but the spirits of those who lived once.

Outside, the wind whispers a horror story.

The dog looks into the mirror and, when I take a peak from underneath the blanket, I find the eyes of the dog’s reflection watching me.

And then the real dog barks, but her reflection doesn’t.

The real dog runs out of the bedroom, but the reflection stays.

The dog in the mirror snickers.

I don’t want to go right now, but goodnight.

I’m afraid I’ll break your heart, you said.
But I smiled.
We were both drunk.
You and I know how to get drunk.

We know how to cheat, too,
and we know how to act.

Let’s light a cigarette, I said.
We shared it.
It was the last one.

Then when it was time for me to go, I said:

Something tells me that you won’t break my heart.
You can’t.

I don’t think you will ever leave me,
because you’re not with me.

And you will never stop loving me,
because you don’t love me.

I don’t want to go right now,
but goodnight.