Morning dreams.
You're just a dream away.
John doesn't know what's worse, the nightmare or waking up.
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There's this dream where you're both on the rooftop. You ask him to stay, and he grins. You ask him to stay and he jumps off the edge, yelling and shouting the whole way down, like he's on a roller coaster that finally took the nose dive.
There's this dream where you're both on the rooftop. He's pacing the edge, balancing with arms outstretched, and you're on your back, watching clouds. He tips violently to one side, and then the other, and for a moment it almost looks like he'll regain his balance.
There's this dream where he's on the rooftop, and you're in the parking lot, alone. "I think I finally figured it out!" He shouts down, and he's not smiling, not even looking at you.
"Oh god, please don't," you say, and he's still not looking at you.
There's this dream where he's on the rooftop and you're in the parking lot, alone. "It's all true," he says, "I'm a fake." And it doesn't stop there, it never stops there. "Please," he begs, "will you do this for me?"
You can't speak, can hardly breathe, and this is the part where you don't wake up. This is the part where you fall to the pavement in a haste to get to ground zero, and you know that this isn't a dream.