Paul

What haunted me wasn’t a dream about a boy called Paul; the dream was him. It took me a while, after waking up, to reason with myself, and banish the possibility that Paul existed. The effort was futile. I couldn’t supernanny myself into ever forgetting him.
Everything seems unenticing and stupid. I don’t want to carry on my mortal, everyday self – schlep my corpse to school, trail behind a friendship, sleep dreamlessly. I shut myself, and rest in peace on my bed. All for the song that goes around in my head; to wait for those narcotic moments to become the matter of fact.
Paul seems to have known me for a while. He smiles without a trace of typical teenage shyness, we’re cheek to cheek when he speaks and softly sings his ghost songs. He knows me. Only one thing worries me; what is Paul trying to tell me? Lately, his words have become hisses, as if from a language that is meant to be spoken through the teeth.