The Bed That Breathed

The moonlight shone softly
through my bedroom window,
casting a pale glow
on everything the world called unseen.

I had awakened from a dream
one that loosened the seams of reality
and left me wondering
what truth even meant
if it was only measured
by what our eyes allow.

Warm beneath my blankets,
I watched the moonlight shimmer.
Then, in an instant,
the air around me turned crisp
the kind of cold that arrives
with intention.

I felt someone enter the room.

I turned, slowly,
to see a woman dressed in black
gliding past my bed,
her movements silent,
her presence unmistakable.

She wore Spanish mourning attire,
a lace veil draped over her face,
shadowing her features
but not her purpose.

She kneeled beside me
with a grace that felt familiar
as if I had watched her do this
a thousand times
in a life I no longer remembered.

And then she prayed.
A prayer my soul recognized
long before my mind did,
a prayer spoken like a message
meant for me alone.

When she finished,
she vanished
as quietly as she came.

But the mattress beside my torso
still held the imprint of her weight,
the undeniable indentation
of someone who had been there.

A truth
I knew I could never share.

Reality, I learned,
belongs only to those
who cling to what their eyes perceive.

I turned back to the moonlight,
its glow cold and comforting,
and wondered
if this haunting
this crossing of worlds
would ever end.