It was the specificity of the dream that disturbed me most. Dreams, after all, are supposed to be wispy things, easily attributed to vague impressions and hungers of one sort or another. This one was different.
We were dancing, which was odd, as we were never much for dancing. Maybe the dancing symbolized something else. You know how dreams are.
Your hair was bouncing in my face and I could smell it. I can smell it still: heavy with the warmth of your blood.
Your hair was bouncing in my face and I could smell it. I can smell it still: heavy with the warmth of your blood.
Words & Music by Mike Power 