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Description
   "And while I watched those tiny shredded pieces of plastic float in nothingness, a thought occurred. 'Little bits of me, lost and alone; congregations of the self, colonies of empty thoughts and memories, now tamed by the cold edge of hard, final vacuum. Space is unforgiving.'

   That dream. I had it.

   It's been a long time since I gathered up the courage to say something. What is it for, I wonder? Do I hope to speak to you again? Do I fear it? I am anything but sure. My mind races in circles, and as I woke up this morning from that dream, a thrill of shock, terror, and longing shot through my heart.

    I raced out to the living room and stretched myself out on the couch, tears coming to my eyes and my hands clamped over my mouth. I struggled to collect my thoughts. Still, the dream tugged at my very consciousness. I could think of nothing else, so I played the experience over in my head while my teeth clamped down on a small pillow.

   My dreams of late have been anything but vivid. Though women haunt them (Spring is nigh!), the inner spaces of my psyche remain foggy and untapped. No REM cycle or jaunt through my subconscious could remain so clear and vivid.

   Not since I died, at least.

   I was…who? The same person, but a little tempered? Perhaps less airy, perhaps more in control? Or was it the exact opposite? Did I value life more, or try to see things in a clearer perspective? Where was I in this new life? No job, no hope, no friends…alone, forgotten and desperate. I had dug my own grave, one where I would hide my stinking corpse from a world that had moved on.

   But this dream, now…what did it mean? I was hoping you would know. It's weird…but somehow, it felt right.

   I was in college…or some bizarre version of high school. So many people I left behind were there, along with many others who had abandoned me as well. The subject? A weird amalgam combining agriculture and poetry. There were no seats; merely rows of swing-sets where people rose up into the air and came down with hardly a noise. There was no change of expression, no displays of emotion. Just silent swinging and scribbling.

    No computers were anywhere. There was simply the tiny scritch-scratch of little No.2 pencils racing across pads of notebook paper. I sat in one bench attached to a series of poles by chains; you sat right in front of me. I could have reached out and touched you, but my arm wouldn't move. In my mind, I said, "No, that row is physically impossible to reach. You're row is here, and you cannot be on that row." My arm and my heart betrayed me, so I sat, choking back words.

   That's when I got the feeling that none of this was real. It felt staged, fake…but the sight of you was a little intoxicating, so I stopped trying to reach the surface of my thoughts. I settled back, and let events take their place.

   You sat on the bench with some other girl. I have no idea who she was, though I felt like I'd seen her before. You engaged in conversation that was mute. Your mouths worked, but sound betrayed you. I sat next to an old enemy who looked me in the eyes with his ancient arrogance, like that of a reptile perched on a sun-baked  rock. I returned his stare, but our attention was captured by the beginning of a voice.

    It was a man. He was dressed in a tacky, homespun sweater, and his eyes were red-rimmed like he'd either been drinking too much or hadn't been getting enough sleep. He addressed the class in a bleary manner, his throat sounding choked. I want to remember what he said, but his exact words escaped me. The gist of it was…

   "Have you finished your poems yet?"

   That's when I heard a chorus of other voices, a series of subtly differentiating contraltos, basses and other pitches I cannot name, rising up and answering the man. There were more people now than I remembered. It was strange, and terrifying. Eventually, the place quieted down when you stood.

   Your voice was the same as I remembered it. You were soft as a whisper when you wanted to be, firm as stone when you needed to be. I admired that, and had practically adored it. I listened in rapture as you spoke.

   "My poem is finished." You said.

   The girl next to you looked away as if embarrassed. I hardly noted it, so focused was I on what you had to say.

   The teacher gave you one of those long-suffering looks educators gave to their pupils. "Present it." He said simply.

   I will be damned if I remember the poem itself. You involved many subjects, but basically the poem seemed to encompass the entirety of your life. It was wonderful at some parts, desperate at others, all bound together with an endless whirl of energy. It was if your poem spoke of an ember cast out from a fire that danced itself with energetic abandon while the cold dark pressed in from all around. I was moved by the poem, but I said nothing.

   I was determined then that I wanted to make a poem to better or match your poem. I wanted to make something that would please or impress you. I felt the light pouring into my mind, though, and I knew time was short. I would awake soon.

   I contented myself by asking you questions; questions I neither remember nor have the answers to. You seemed eager to supply the answers, and I felt ashamed that I had bothered you. Then, for some reason I cannot fathom, I put my booted feet against your bench and gave it a shove.

   You swung high into the air, giggling. The girl next to you in the bench complained to the teacher.

   "Teacher, he pushed our chair!" She sounded like a petulant three-year-old. I almost laughed, but I covered my mouth and stifled the foreboding snort.

   The teacher ignored her. I was going to apologize when…

   Dawn. Harsh, cold and breaking. Sunlight pouring in through dusty blinds. I stretched, sweating and breathing hard, the memories still fresh. I clenched my eyelids, trying to force myself back to sleep, but that is like trying to drink the ocean with a straw.

   I roll off the bed into the sunlight. Outside, the sky is gray and overcast. Suddenly, my heart races and I tear out of my bedroom like a bat out of hell.

   No one is awake yet. The halls are empty and silent. I run to the living room shirtless and throw myself onto the couch. I bury my head into a small, square black pillow with floral patterns that tease the eye. After a throaty sob, I roll over and stare at the ceiling, lettings the dream replay in my mind.

   No tears come; just wonder. I had died, and now I live again. Who am I, and what will I do now?

   The poem I wanted to make was finished.

   "Little bits of me, lost and alone."

Description
   "And while I watched those tiny shredded pieces of plastic float in nothingness, a thought occurred. 'Little bits of me, lost and alone; congregations of the self, colonies of empty thoughts and memories, now tamed by the cold edge of hard, final vacuum. Space is unforgiving.'

   That dream. I had it.

   It's been a long time since I gathered up the courage to say something. What is it for, I wonder? Do I hope to speak to you again? Do I fear it? I am anything but sure. My mind races in circles, and as I woke up this morning from that dream, a thrill of shock, terror, and longing shot through my heart.

    I raced out to the living room and stretched myself out on the couch, tears coming to my eyes and my hands clamped over my mouth. I struggled to collect my thoughts. Still, the dream tugged at my very consciousness. I could think of nothing else, so I played the experience over in my head while my teeth clamped down on a small pillow.

   My dreams of late have been anything but vivid. Though women haunt them (Spring is nigh!), the inner spaces of my psyche remain foggy and untapped. No REM cycle or jaunt through my subconscious could remain so clear and vivid.

   Not since I died, at least.

   I was…who? The same person, but a little tempered? Perhaps less airy, perhaps more in control? Or was it the exact opposite? Did I value life more, or try to see things in a clearer perspective? Where was I in this new life? No job, no hope, no friends…alone, forgotten and desperate. I had dug my own grave, one where I would hide my stinking corpse from a world that had moved on.

   But this dream, now…what did it mean? I was hoping you would know. It's weird…but somehow, it felt right.

   I was in college…or some bizarre version of high school. So many people I left behind were there, along with many others who had abandoned me as well. The subject? A weird amalgam combining agriculture and poetry. There were no seats; merely rows of swing-sets where people rose up into the air and came down with hardly a noise. There was no change of expression, no displays of emotion. Just silent swinging and scribbling.

    No computers were anywhere. There was simply the tiny scritch-scratch of little No.2 pencils racing across pads of notebook paper. I sat in one bench attached to a series of poles by chains; you sat right in front of me. I could have reached out and touched you, but my arm wouldn't move. In my mind, I said, "No, that row is physically impossible to reach. You're row is here, and you cannot be on that row." My arm and my heart betrayed me, so I sat, choking back words.

   That's when I got the feeling that none of this was real. It felt staged, fake…but the sight of you was a little intoxicating, so I stopped trying to reach the surface of my thoughts. I settled back, and let events take their place.

   You sat on the bench with some other girl. I have no idea who she was, though I felt like I'd seen her before. You engaged in conversation that was mute. Your mouths worked, but sound betrayed you. I sat next to an old enemy who looked me in the eyes with his ancient arrogance, like that of a reptile perched on a sun-baked  rock. I returned his stare, but our attention was captured by the beginning of a voice.

    It was a man. He was dressed in a tacky, homespun sweater, and his eyes were red-rimmed like he'd either been drinking too much or hadn't been getting enough sleep. He addressed the class in a bleary manner, his throat sounding choked. I want to remember what he said, but his exact words escaped me. The gist of it was…

   "Have you finished your poems yet?"

   That's when I heard a chorus of other voices, a series of subtly differentiating contraltos, basses and other pitches I cannot name, rising up and answering the man. There were more people now than I remembered. It was strange, and terrifying. Eventually, the place quieted down when you stood.

   Your voice was the same as I remembered it. You were soft as a whisper when you wanted to be, firm as stone when you needed to be. I admired that, and had practically adored it. I listened in rapture as you spoke.

   "My poem is finished." You said.

   The girl next to you looked away as if embarrassed. I hardly noted it, so focused was I on what you had to say.

   The teacher gave you one of those long-suffering looks educators gave to their pupils. "Present it." He said simply.

   I will be damned if I remember the poem itself. You involved many subjects, but basically the poem seemed to encompass the entirety of your life. It was wonderful at some parts, desperate at others, all bound together with an endless whirl of energy. It was if your poem spoke of an ember cast out from a fire that danced itself with energetic abandon while the cold dark pressed in from all around. I was moved by the poem, but I said nothing.

   I was determined then that I wanted to make a poem to better or match your poem. I wanted to make something that would please or impress you. I felt the light pouring into my mind, though, and I knew time was short. I would awake soon.

   I contented myself by asking you questions; questions I neither remember nor have the answers to. You seemed eager to supply the answers, and I felt ashamed that I had bothered you. Then, for some reason I cannot fathom, I put my booted feet against your bench and gave it a shove.

   You swung high into the air, giggling. The girl next to you in the bench complained to the teacher.

   "Teacher, he pushed our chair!" She sounded like a petulant three-year-old. I almost laughed, but I covered my mouth and stifled the foreboding snort.

   The teacher ignored her. I was going to apologize when…

   Dawn. Harsh, cold and breaking. Sunlight pouring in through dusty blinds. I stretched, sweating and breathing hard, the memories still fresh. I clenched my eyelids, trying to force myself back to sleep, but that is like trying to drink the ocean with a straw.

   I roll off the bed into the sunlight. Outside, the sky is gray and overcast. Suddenly, my heart races and I tear out of my bedroom like a bat out of hell.

   No one is awake yet. The halls are empty and silent. I run to the living room shirtless and throw myself onto the couch. I bury my head into a small, square black pillow with floral patterns that tease the eye. After a throaty sob, I roll over and stare at the ceiling, lettings the dream replay in my mind.

   No tears come; just wonder. I had died, and now I live again. Who am I, and what will I do now?

   The poem I wanted to make was finished.

   "Little bits of me, lost and alone."