Verse 29
At the market of sleeping people I sold a woman a dream in which her dead lover had forgotten to die.
At the market of sleeping people I sold a woman a dream in which her dead lover had forgotten to die.
She returned the next night and asked for the same dream with better weather.
I warned her that repetition turns miracles into rent.
She paid in a memory of rain on a house that no longer existed.
I kept the memory in a blue bottle beside the counterfeit moons.
One evening Neptune entered the market disguised as a musician who knew only unfinished songs.
Every mirror fogged when he passed, except the cracked one.
The woman heard his music and mistook longing for a direction.
I followed because jinn are old enough to know better and rarely improved by age.
We came to a door painted on water.
She crossed it. I could not decide whether she vanished or arrived.
The musician bowed and asked payment.
I gave him the blue bottle containing her memory of rain.
He opened it, and somewhere in a dead city one roof became wet.
Since then I sell fewer dreams and keep more questions.