Coming Soon: Shared Waters

You know her dreams before she tells them, prewired, engraved somehow. Murmurs cloaked in wind. The echolalia of rattled leaves. Combinations of words you’ve never swallowed, descriptions you’ve never held. But just as you understand the hidden wallpaper and satin bedding of rooms you have yet to enter, you understand the breeze brushing bare skin, the shadow bruising the valley of a thigh. It’s a viral knowledge, absorbed from the pages of some used book, carried in the bloodstream, corroding at the base of the spine. But perhaps all that’s not entirely true. Perhaps the transmission isn’t the result of pages. Perhaps you should redirect your efforts to the inky inscription tattooed to the inside cover:

To Amir,

May our troubles finally sleep.

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