The Fourth Layer

Lyrics

The sheets are cold, then warm.
A single, stuttering breath.
This room again. The first time.
Or the last time.
I sit up. False start. The body-jerk that leaves you paralyzed.
The wallpaper has a pattern of listening ears.
The clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 a.m.
It read that the last time I woke up in here.
I look at the window. It reflects the back of my head.
This is the test. The first layer.
So I rub my palms together.
Friction to find the grain of the world.
To feel a texture that will hold my weight.
My skin feels like paper, then sand, then a silver plate.
Trying to generate a static charge. Something to anchor the ghost.
Wake up.
The same bed. The ceiling is lower now.
The alarm clock reads 3:17 a.m. but the numbers are backwards.
A shadow in the corner wears a hat I don't own.
It nods as if it knows the count.
I hold up my hand to the moonlight from the window that isn't a window.
I counted six fingers and tried again and the thumb was made of glass.
Layer two is a liar.
So I rub my palms together. Harder.
Friction to find the seam of the world.
To feel a texture that will hold my name.
My skin feels like static, then water, then a quiet flame.
Trying to strike a match in a room made of fog.
And the third awakening is just a sound.
No body. No bed. Just the memory of hands.
The room is an idea now, a blueprint of a trap.
I am the floorboards and the watching shadow and the glitching clock.
The whole architecture is me.
This layer has no exit. It only has a floor.
So I wake up without waking.
On the fourth floor of the hotel that is only this room.
And I rub my hands together and the feeling is… just skin.
Warm. Real. The lines on my palms are my own.
The clock reads 3:18 a.m. One minute has passed.
The shadow is gone.
The window shows a quiet street I've never seen, but I believe it.
The texture holds.
Finally.
I stay.
The air tastes like air.
I hold my own hand.
And wait for the real morning.