Half Asleep.

The water trickles and I'm mumbling to myself to turn the music down because there are two sleeping bodies outside the door and I'm half asleep and it's early. I step inside the shower, brush against a thin curtain of pale greens and blues and the shower scalds me, brands little tear-shaped marks on my lower back. It's so hot that it's cold and I stare at my kneecaps covered in gooseflesh and I wonder why the uprising of hair follicles is called something so bizarre. It's dark outside and as soon as we hit a steady 68 I let myself linger in the space between dreaming and living. My left cheek is pressed against a pair of blue denim. I sit up slightly and stare at the delicate blue threads. I am a moth and my wings have left white powder on my resting place, I breathe into the air and they dissolve and we breath them in, these little wings like specks of dust.  I place a small gold key inside a small silver lock and twist, I listen for the chime of gears moving and a deadbolt fastening and I smile, remove a gray wall that's collapsing inside of itself. I think about losing my friend. And it's only the middle of my week and I can't hear anyone over the music because it's too loud and I'm muttering to myself to turn it down. And then I realize the music is just my humming, something someone once told my they do when they're nervous. But I'm not nervous, I'm just half asleep.