In last night's dream I could run pretty fast:
tenth place in the 5k that involved climbing
wobbly circus ladders through plastic sheeting.
I did not stop for water. When I got home,
Lady Gaga received me well in my bed.
Then I drove five hours north to see you in
Montreal, a place in which neither of us has
I stayed with you, your wife, and your kids in
your rambling split level. I tried to Sharpie
I love you inside the pink unmentionables
of a souvenir sea shell.
I was going to leave it for you atop a roll
of toilet paper. I smeared the ink before it
had a chance to dry. Typical me.
I was undaunted. I could get by without it.
You knew, in this dream.
And you loved me back
(the difference = everything - nothing).
You would continue living in a city that
neither of us has ever called home
and I would--
well, who knows what I would do?
You helped pack my car as she feigned
disappointment over my departure,
I'd brought too much, as I always do.
The lone snowshoe scraped my knuckle
as your warm palm slipped under mine,
our hands hidden in the bungee'd
detritus of the car roof. You smiled and I
gladly stopped breathing. Didn't need it,
not anymore, useless breath.
(the difference = everything - nothing)
I knew and you knew.
There was comfort in that, finally.
Sea shell, snowshoe and circumstance