Struggled breaths, ragged and heavy, and the sound of my own gasping. A ring, sharp and shrill and constant, swimming through my head and leaving a deaf, dull ache behind. Through the doldrums I feel the soft arch of braided, knotted cotton and its gentle weight against my dry, dying skin. 

      Sheets ruffle harmoniously, and the cool wood meets the calluses of my feet. Moonlight flirts with my skin and brushes a kiss against my wrinkled cheek and laughs a laugh that only the tops of the trees can hear. My knees shiver beneath my weight, and the atrophied muscle croaks a withered, apologetic sigh. My stomach churns like the languorous waves of an enormous sea, and my insides constrict in a manner that reminds me of an old, forgotten life. 

      My memories do not leave me wistful. They leave me tortured and agonized, despondent and listless. 

      The floor creaks under my weight, and my breathing becomes smooth as the flower petals that lilt with the breeze, light as a jar of nothing. My heartbeat slows to a trot, and for a moment—just a moment—the world is silent as death. 

      I fumble to bring the glass to my cracked, bloodied lips, eventually getting down a bit of the brackish water. No longer do I scowl at the taste, nor do I feel my features bitterly contort. Instead, my wrinkles cast in the manner of an old, waiting man, and that I am. 

      The water soothes my stirring stomach with a wet kiss, and the silence is broken by the quiet roll of glass bottom against wood. 

      Footsteps do not follow, however, and I pause, clinging to something that no longer is. 

      A sudden reverie, and my hand blocks the sunshine from my eyes. The patient touch and loving giggle from someone I once knew, and the wondrous applaud of a thousand butterflies cavorting through my innards. Warm breath and quiet eyes and the smell of flowers just bloomed and hair freshly washed. I drift with the peace of a pretty smile and the arch of an emphatic dalliance. Quick breaths, closed eyes, rushing hearts… 

      The floor is cold against my soles, and the moonlight cries against my wrinkled cheeks. The wood creaks, and I find my way back into the folds of knotted cotton, which are no longer as soft and gentle as before. I tug them to cover myself and chortle a cough that sends me into a tumble of more coughing and flecks of dark stained spittle. 

      As I settle, the moon wishes me a good night, and that is enough.