I dreamt of you last night. No, never mind. I dreamt of us. There you were. It was you,
so alive in the mere pain of living;
eternally Dionysian.
You were there, so was your mother.
But it wasnt your mother, not exactly.
and we were in your house.
But it wasn't your house,
not exactly.
I know that house on that street, in that
same heartbreak hometown;
but you no longer live there
and neither does your mother.
These memories are like dreams;
you know who was there, and you
know where it was, but all the other details,
are not details at all;
they are feelings like phantom hands,
sliding up the spine of what hope is left
after adulthood has taken the lion’s share.
It’s brutal, as it is beautiful.
The way we shaped one another
all those years ago,
and now we are those shapes,
like little houses with roofs,
living in the walls.
Like, your house
Like, my house,
but not really our house.
Not exactly.
