I seem to notice things too late, that storms are simple affairs, not complications
that crawl out of sidewalk cracks, that some thoughts appear to be memories
but are really dreams. In this dream we are on the water, you search for my hands,
the sea is unforgiving and our words turn empty and light. You say you remember,
remember feeling like a stranger in your own clothes, envious of other girls,
the ones with alphabet skirts and mouths that were made for sex. You want to forget
all the names for every shape of your body, want to feel the sting as salt burns a hole
to the ocean’s floor. In this dream, the days shift to weeks and I see a bottle spin
in the kitchen—a half pack of cigarettes balances on the edge of the counter, it’s a jester
with one foot out the door. I study the tattoo on your upper arm, think of shallow beams
that pool on the floor, know that it will never rain again. I want to believe the stories
of how you turned the sky inside out looking for the moon, how you call her sister
even after she betrayed you. I want to believe you when you tell me you have tasted
the future and found it bitter. Soon, morning will bring with it that washed up feeling
of being sober but don’t be afraid, thunder is an empty promise that sticks to your door
