Something fictional.

Promises to the living.

I'll be the eyes that take in life as it passes around you,
I'll be the mind that appreciates the one wearing faux leather in a sea of blazers,
I'll be the peculiar grey manta ray you spot in the shallow, clear waters of a foreign country,
I'll be the one you drink wine with on a lonely Friday evening,
I'll be the bright, vivid color red that flows through your heart, the steady beating of the drums inside your chest, the life coursing through your veins.

You may not see it yet, but I am the upper left fragment of your heart--the memories of the living.

Something fictional.

Not quite a somnambulist.

She sleep talked only in French because the language was beautiful. The slurs of a foreigner, of musings of a world that only existed behind the darkness of closed lids crept out of her mouth in hushed tones. Whispers nearly silent, meant exclusively for the night sky which powered her slumber.

Theses were the undocumented, elusive, intimate conversations of the mind to the moon.

La lune.