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Cock back the hammer. But no nails, none that construct. Anyway. Just nails to tear down this wood paneling. And sentences better left unsaid, rubbing and scratching, and more tearing of syntax and letters that should make sense but don't quite make it.

The smell of imaginary bullets traveling great distances through metal barrels, the lines hardly painted straight. Spray the floorboards and window shades with the stuff that dreams are made of and the dust from the backs of our eyes. Like cotton candy climbing walls, bright pink and fluffy, finding some place to swing on the ceiling, sticking to angled lips and spinning lights.

And hoping that nights will be filled with nothing but closed eyes now that dreams are cotton candy and the walls are bright pink. And window shades that shine through, bask the room in this pink glow, so the taste is on the back of our minds, where that imaginary hole should be, where it's already healing, filling up.

And then it doesn't matter if the shades work or not because it's easy to go from one side of the bed to the other and back again, complete roundtrip.

Even if the walls and eyes and joints are cotton candy.