You were in my dream last night and I was bleeding in the living room of a house neither of us knew. I ruined the rug but we didn’t seem to care, neither that we’d broken in nor that they would know we were there. Spots like Rorschach tests along the edge near a piano. If I say you wanted to fuck me, does that give away what the dream was about?
This morning the ocean is so calm there are no waves, not even small ones that lap the shoreline, just flat and shades of blue to the impossibly near horizon where one boat has sat all morning. I met a fisherman who told me an albatross is good luck, that the winds have different names, and that he only felt at home when he was out on the water. Sailors have superstitions, fisherman even more so. The ocean has its own language.
I am reading a book on reclaiming your creativity. I wonder where or when I’d set that aside so that I feel so inclined to go looking for it. Someone had originally handed me the book in the basement library in Vermont, the one with the window near the river where I had all of my hard conversations that month. Perhaps I left it there. Vermont feels like a lifetime ago and in ways, just a moment. How can everything change so little and so entirely all at once?
The boat has gone beyond the horizon and I can no longer see it.
In my dream you kissed me well and told me not to worry, it was just a bit of blood. I understood in the dream that what you said was not about what I ruined, but rather that I still had so much left give.