saturn return

The dream is a white room, and the room is a throat, and you are on the table.

You are laid out like a blueprint or a map of a country I am trying to conquer.

Where the knife should be, an empty space.

My hand is the ghost.

Maybe that’s wrong.

Maybe I’m the one on the table. Maybe I’m the one waiting to be unzipped.

And you are standing over me, holding…