Dream

I dreamt about you last night.  I thought

I would forget by the time I got my shoes on;

I didn’t.  It must have been because it was

so warm in my bed last night, with my

socks and the blankets up over my head

like an old cocoon.  I dreamt about

you last night.  We were in your house,

which was not your house, and I was asleep

next to the giant sailboat you keep in the

loft with the cats.  You would be out until

3am, then leaving for work at 6am, I knew

but didn’t know.  I dreamt about you

last night, that at 3am I stumbled down from

the loft to go to the bathroom, which was outside

in a misty rainforest.  There were brightly colored

frogs; the toilets were covered in vines. 

I  shuffled back to your dream house, and there

you were lying on a futon by the door,

curled like a snail.  I dreamt

about you last night, that I folded myself

into your arms and heat under the dream

blankets by the door, against the muscle of your

breath, your hands.  I thought it would unravel

itself, the dream, this morning, but here I am

cold and wet with my legs crossed, dreaming

of your warmth and the door.  I dreamt.