Adam Smith

I lay awake in the place where time and soft breezes passed over me, the window at the end of the room opening for either. In my state, I could not tell up from down; I was in love with the illusion of weightlessness. With closed eyes I could see them, the greygreen stringlights, the ones that made up those aureoles of energy I always imagined, scrambling for a place to be.

Ghosts (My ghosts) hovered over me, brushing my face with the invisible hands Adam Smith so cherished. The same hands of a fate I have yet to stand face-to-face with, my own. 

Sometimes, I like to take the time to imagine the conversations we’d have, though, mostly, they’re much too short, with me asking too many questions, and a glowing someone shaking her head, staying so solemnly still.