In my dream universe
where sometimes there are nightmares,
we do talk.
You sound just as sultry as ever,
and you still speak by tilting
your head and hiding
your eyes.
I'm still never honest,
because being honest was only a requirement
if we were alone,
and even in dreams
we could never be alone.
That's why the tethers are so strong,
I think,
why we cannot walk away even when we're running.
It was never about you and me,
fucking or fighting or,
occasionally,
loving each other.
It was never, more specifically,
about me or you.
It was always about
every other opinion
out there that could
get in our way and
how you let them
slide between us like
oil through cracks
in a sidewalk.
I don't miss you, I find,
I didn't know you.
We do talk in my dreams
but then you're telling
me stories of your
superstitions and fears,
childish things I held
onto when you turned
into a monster.
I've decided, then,
to stop running.
I'll drop by the store on my way
home;
I'll buy a pair of sharp
scissors.









