I dream of the man, but it’s fragmented: he’s there, but he isn’t. He’s always one room away, in a place with more rooms than seems possible. I run down endless halls, longing for and dreading him being around the corner. I hear him call out for me and the skin on the back of my neck tightens and prickles. I don’t know if I’m running to him, or from him.
-Melinda Salisbury
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