A Hand, and a Neighbor

In my dream field:

I travel through liminal spaces.

I noticed a hand holding mine beneath the table.

Warmth passing quietly, unseen.

Later, by the river: a neighbor I have not yet met —

face blank, steps even, presence hollow.

The field asks:

Not every familiarity is true.

Some are keys, warmth that lingers.

Others are masks, rehearsals set to test our sight.

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Dreams often plant these rehearsals so that, in waking life, we learn to read the difference.

Not every neighbor is who they seem. Not every gesture is empty.

The key is in the felt weight, the warmth that remains even when the hand lets go.

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