Returning

I. Down the rabbit hole

Sinking,

sinking,

sinking

The stairs like cyclical storm grates

Your body standing still

The windows flash

A film reel of the places you know

You see yourself there, staring among the sunflower fields . . .

No, your reflection is in the glass

II. Through the looking glass

Pure light still leaks through the gaps in the curtain,

Refracting and forming kaleidoscopic patterns on the ceiling

In the quiet lies a near-forgotten tranquility

The bookshelf is brimming with old versions of you, stuck between pages

Some titles have disappeared since you’ve left,

You feel their absence like an ache

You reach for one

Your hand passes right through

III. Awake on the riverbank

The sun is high in the sky, brighter than you’re used to.

Every object is crisp and in high definition.

Sweat beads on your forehead.

You touch the grass.

Your every thought must filter through its sweet, encompassing scent.

It’s soft and vibrant and oh so real, real, real