The truth I saw was like a green mossy cave, a definite carved space, full in itself, stetching away into hiddenness. When I tell stories about you I have to use my hands.

Sleeping next to you was allowing you as art. All I could do was admire your face and your generator omnivore textile mill brain.

Sometimes I am able to believe that you might be doing more than just putting up with me. Needless to say, it’s kind of my favorite dream.