Last night I dreamed I heard the water
running in the hotel bathroom, so
I opened the door and joined you. Your
hair was shorter than usual. I
washed you all over, then we dressed each
other. You told me you wanted to
take me somewhere we’d never leave. It
was a black morning starstruck by the
glimmering orange streetlamps. You pulled
me through the fluorescent hallways of
the bleach-bitten hotel we’d spent all
week bustling through for snacks and ice. Out
side, the sand was everywhere. There
was sand on the sidewalks, the streets, piled
on the stoplights, mounding over cars—
soon, I realized it was falling
from the sky. We walked through cones of sand
under the streetlights and you told me
that our cats had gotten out. They trailed
us like flickering flames, leaving paw
prints behind. Soon you reached for my hand
as we left the glow of the city
and your clean skin was grained and rubbed coarse
against mine. The cats were gone, but you
said you could see them. You said we were
almost there, and I finally grasped
that I’d been looking all around, but
when I finally looked at you, you
were a dark figure lit along the
edges with orange dust, your short hair
dancing like a candle, your hand in
mine, taking me somewhere, anywhere.

…

Devon Neal (he/him) is a Bardstown, KY resident who received a B.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University and an MBA from The University of the Cumberlands. He currently works as a Human Resources Manager in Louisville, KY. His work has been featured in Moss Puppy Magazine, coalitionworks, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Rough Cut Press, and others.