I want to take you far from the cynics in this town and kiss you on the mouth

I am a proponent for the idea that you are not more than you want and that what you want, your body will tell you. Mothers, I think, know some of this - how it is in carrying about young that needs will come clear; cravings, in the vernacular, a bubbling urge for some...thing...that the mind does not exactly know itself.

I'm supposed to love Bloody Marys, I am told.

The carriage shifts, thoughtless, to our desires - how the hips turn, the shoulders dip or crane to show. I cannot imagine how fool I look when you sit down next to, all marionette and fidgeting in your impossible hereness - the waking mind does not tell me where to shift my feet, it doesn't straighten my back and slouch me mounting in my chair; blinking as you go into the peculiar way this wall has me leaning to it, as if starting upon a stranger's couch too early in some morning.

And I dream. The presumptions of my deep mind are that you are mostly how you have acted around me - my dreams rarely enact changes in people, we are mostly who I know us to be. But you are in places unexpected, wearing things that make little afternoon sense and you say things I am thinking, not things you are thinking. This nightyou, who sits calmly with me in a long dark, who stretches and liquids through my sleep.

What I know I keep.