The ceiling is ripped, we pull it down a little and make stairs out of the melting wood. Now standing on the bedroom floor of a house I used to know, there is a man walking his dog, and then it snows.
We jump out the window and play in the white chill, then look at the sun to warm our souls. There is a tear in the sky, we pull and a waterfall emerges and washes away the snow and the houses. We laugh and hold on to the corner of the world, holding hands. Do we just jump or hang on forever. Silently we communicate ‘one, two, THREE’ and I lose my grip. I fall, I awake, and find he is not there, with me.
I look to the ceiling, the window, the sky and I close my eyes tighter then ever before. Where is my yellow brick road? Where are my red shoes? I don’t want to be home now, I want to be there, with him, holding onto the corner of the world.