It is a tarnished type of melancholy, the dreams, I rest my soul upon. Velvet blue, not quite black, but just enough so the Shadows feel at home. Your crooked neck scrapes the ceiling, your periscope fingers wrap from end to end around the frame of my bedroom door, around the edge of my mind. A silky silhouette that looms over me and tells me not to scream.

I feel empty without you. 

                    I scream only to scare you. 

I run only to embrace you. 

But you melt into the darkness and color washes over me until I am standing by the ocean, in the desert, or on an empty street. I know you still watch from behind a pulled curtain. Waking, dreaming, you are the specter who allows my heart to beat; you are the demon who grants me fitful peace; you are the Shadows I see every time I blink. I know you are there as you have always been. I am not afraid of your presence in the background of my dreams. I am, however, in constant fear that the next time I find you lurking at the edge of my door, the next time you ask me not to scream, I will place your razor-wire fingers over my mouth, look into your visage, and finish the dream.