It wasn’t a nightmare
I used to have this dream, recurring every night.

It was a witch and she stood in my closet.

She was just a picture, a still image

Until she started to fly.

Then she’d go in circles, around the room I shared with Drew.

She wasn’t evil, but she wasn’t good either.

She was just there, a never-changing part of my life,

A shadow I never noticed.

I never noticed her absence either, once she left.

An empty space that was filled by something else.

It wasn’t until years later that I remembered her:

An old friend I never really knew.

 

A revised history
You asked me if I’d miss you more than the city.

And then you asked if I’d miss you more than the job.

Then the friends.

I told you I’d miss you above all else, and I believed it.

For a couple months I was right, believing you to be the reason I’d been so happy.

And then someone else filled your role, but nothing else filled the other few vacancies.

So it wasn’t you I was missing.

 

The third option
The house next to mine opened up.

I think I’d known someone had lived there

But then she didn’t – or he

Did my neighbor-not-neighbor move?

Or die.

Is there a third option?

 

So now a house sits empty,

Waiting for its next breath of life

While I wait for the next person I’ll forget to know.

 

The history of a motel room
Someone is there, a short period

A comma on the timeline that spans the infinite.

Then it’s someone else, or two new occupants

With their own reasons.

And they make new memories, even ones best forgotten.

It’s only in the emptiness between that it ceases to exist because

Its pure existential reason is dependent on occupancy.