treatswords

Last night I dreamt of you.

But this didn’t feel like you.

The version of you that wore tan denim, a circle crease in your back pocket
from years of carrying tobacco.

Pale skin fading, blue eyes dissolving. This version of you didn’t have a
form. Bones were just sticks that fell from trees, tendons weren’t intimately
known, warm from a morning run.

“We’ve known each other for eternities.”

You said, sitting on the hood of your car surrounded by stars.

The air smelled of gasoline, gray stain on your cemented garage.

Rolled up flannel sleeves could never escape you. Even here, I glimpsed the thick
cotton folds.

“We’ll meet again, in another dimension. We will always find one
another, again and again.”

Our wheel.

I pictured it rolling down a desert street, traffic lights clicking red.

A tumble weed, drifting around in an indefinite wind.

Me a tiny plant, attached to your soil.

You can see from my face that I couldn’t bear to know you again, in another
life.

“It won’t be like that next time. We will be different.”

And I believe this presence that claims to be you.

I watch as stars rain behind you, making nickel sized dents in your car.

I can feel in my gut, that you are right.

We will always dance between knobby stars until we bump elbows.

And the universe will pause.

Fresh pink lungs feeling air for the first time.

But I feel you will always be fleeting.

A trail of iridescent dust somewhere, just out of my reach.

.