Nightfall

I dreamt once that we were twins. You looked like me and I looked like you, but everything was opposite, mirror images.

I walked down streets in a tiny town. You weren’t there but I felt you near me, dreaming too. I saw old faces and they recognized me. I couldn’t remember their names.

"Mavis," a man said and I felt stupid.

There was quiet where usually there’s noise. Cars moved silent down roads, like clumsy ghosts. My footsteps were noiseless, too. I was floating. But air moved past my ears like jet planes and I thought about what we hear and what we can’t.

I had a dream within the dream, and that's where I found you. You were taking a bath in my blood.

“Why are you doing that?” I asked.

“To get to know you.”

The red was pretty and silly on your skin. You looked kind. I didn’t need it anyway, so I sat down next to you. I stretched my bones out of my skin.

“Thanks,” they whispered.

I woke up next to you still.

When we're walking later, without dreams, I looked down at my feet. I heard them, like tap shoes, but the air hid. I saw my shadow. She waved at us.

You missed it.