fluids and antihistamines and amoxicillin and acetaminophen and humidifiers and more fluids have filled my days.

today i woke up to something scrawled in my bedside journal.  i used to use it to record my dreams, but i’d given that up more than a few years ago.  i guess in the fog of sickness and recovery, an old habit returned for the night.

i have no idea what it means, but somewhere in my slumber, the colours came alive.

i close my eyes
and the colours begin swirling
around and around

i try to assign ranks and rivalries,
to declare a winner,
but the colours dissolve into a carpet
of leaves — rust, amber, cinnamon –
over and over
repeating

(you’ll never remember this)

the leaves begin to move
they become a river
only the water
is red — auburn, crimson, sanguine –
the colour of blood
(yours, mine)
it flows without pain or
source or consequence

there will be no accounting,
not this night.
only freedom
(mine, yours)
again and again

on a river of red