an old model of a lock

you told me to knock so i do. not too hard. you sleep light. few breathes have been known to flutter into being from your dreams. i remember when you told me one. the one of the good life. where you would be undressed save for mismatching socks. and there would be the food that you only ate a few times in your life like veal, though here no cow would have to be slaughtered, fresh bread, every flavour of jam, a bit of strong coffee that would leave life on your exhalation, sugar that did not clog, salt that did not clog, and a pinch of pepper that did. sun would swim like a good story, like this one. i’d be there sitting, telling you what shakespeare’s last thought was, or how to get back to the place where lost keys and ambitions go. we’d be warm and wonderful. most of it would be laughter. the rest would be just that – sleeping again against the wakeful air that reminds us to listen to it all.

no noise is returned now. they must’ve fixed the door. renovated even. did they find my keys here among the lost?