Toast.

I know that there's toast burning.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can sense it with every passing second, smell its charred edges

It slashes harshly, a dull buzzing in my skull-

But it is not there.

I know there must be toast, though.

Somewhere in this kitchen there is a fire that I cannot stop or control

But it seems so far away when all there is to see is smoke.

I can't even touch the kitchen, anymore.

I can't feel the table I thought my hand was on, I can hardly smell anything at all now,

The smoke only grows thicker

And I am pulled into the gray,

A gentle tug.

The tug of a child's smaller hand wrapped around mine, promising me it will be safer this way

So I follow.

And within the smoke,

Rather than the toaster still teeming with fire, a flame that will likely begin to lick at the rest of my kitchen -

Tables, cupboards, so many compartments turned to ruin

Yet so easy to forget -

I am in a forest.

The smoke has become an inescapable fog

And I lay myself to rest,

Allow my eyes to go unfocused

And my limbs to grow still

Because

Who wants to be stuck in a room with burning toast, anyway?

I'd rather stay here for a while till the heat of the flame jars me back to life.

There's so much less chaos among the towering, winding trees that I might

There's so much less chaos among the towering, winding trees that

I might

Just

Disappear a while.