When I sleep

When I doze, my arms and legs vanish. I am uncovered in my warm room, but my eyes close and I’m wrapped in warm, close blankets the color of mist. At my upper arms and thighs, my limbs fade away in a faint whooshing vibration, like cars driving into fog. When I stir, they reappear only briefly: pairs of headlights moving through the dense, moist air, returning home, on the way to the crime scene, rounding a blind curve and vanishing again.