Limbo

A shot fired off in a dream

awakening me at 4 a.m.,

a time once referred to as limbo

on the phone with a friend years ago,

when it felt not quite like night, but not quite yet morning.

The adrenaline slowed by 5,

the pool of blood erasing itself finally from the back of my eyelids,

the sprinting and screaming of a nightmare no longer ringing in my ears.

I held her in the street, applying pressure,

begging a brother who hasn't spoken to me in a decade to lower his hand from his temple

distraught at this accident playing out in my brain.

I replay it, unraveling the scene curled up under blankets.

I do not spend my time interpreting dreams these days,

nor the vivid nightmares of loss that invade my slumber.

I sigh and blame it on limbo.