My heart is in your blue bag.

It jumps up and down with anxiety. It goes wherever you take it. It peeks at you with big, watery eyes.

The blue bag with the white stripes. The one you take shopping. The one which ripped last night when it couldn't contain everything you pushed into it.

There's rubble and broken pieces of your things. You can try and piece them together but you might cut your hand. 

There's a tangle of blue bodies. 

The colour chips off, papery and dry at first. It then flows, all smooth and graceful, into a pool at the bottom of the bed. There are thin sounds that echo through the room and then there is the sound of rain. Rain as blue as my body; rain as fierce as the guttural voices that escape.

In the end, it all dissolves and seeps. We are reduced to thick, lucid liquid that darts off the bed into the cracks in the wall. We are now one with everyone else, we are just like everyone else.

The gurgling of the affection now recedes. The space is now back to how it was, no knotted ink coloured arms and no runaway emotions. 

My dreams are often bathed in blue.

They involve drug lords getting attacked my paper birds. The paper birds unfold a message which very often includes death in a gruesome fashion. Sometimes, they are a whirlwind train journey through many snapshots. The faces that flash are attached to bodies that aren't their own. They tell tales with not too much sound; tales that are far more interesting than their non-dream existence. 

They ripple along with the slightest sound and melt into completely different worlds. It's like seeing something through a coloured lens. It's like watching something thrilling, something that you want to be a part of so much, that it's frightening. 

The blue light fades away in the mornings taking with it the stories and the parallel lives. The things and the people pack up in loud silence, like the actors after a heart stopping play.