I don’t do any drugs but I write about dreams more than a person should. Is that like worse?

It’s like I switched the TV on 25 minutes into the movie, because I only have snapshots. This night you’re not a narrative ready to be blogged, or told, or turned into marketable packages like poems which won’t make any money. But it was you, exactly. And isn’t it, always?

We were on a sofa in someone’s house, watching a kids’ film, a cartoon, one of those in-between, appropriate for anyone things, because sex jokes go over the heads of even some twenty year olds. But we’re not twenty. You most definitely aren’t. And I’m at that announce-able age where if I don’t start having children soon, people will think there’s something wrong with me. And there is, but not that.

I ended up on you, and I say ended up like it’s osmosis, this natural move, not play or awkward moment, but something that happens like when the bus turns a corner and the person next to you starts touching you and it wasn’t purposeful but it happened and you’re sort of okay about it. Well it was like that, but better. Basically, every dream that we’re in, eventually, I’m pressed against you like wallpaper, bubble-less, and you’re quintessentially okay with it also.

Dream me wondered if that black jumper might make an impression on my face. If it did, it wouldn’t be as structurally solid as the indent you’ve made on me, that you’re making, that’s an un-finish-able wool pattern, fun even in the knitting. I crave solidity like a sweater stamp.

My dad walked in when the film was over, and I didn’t jump up like real life might enforce, and no-one was surprised at the situation; Us. And we wondered what next. Didn’t say, but your eyes, eager in direct moments, when everything else was onscreen, asked.

I won’t say the rest. Even under duress, with the right bribe. Because it was imprecise. And an idiot could work out the meaning. Google’s got it on the first try. Comprende? “Maybe triggered by some major change or wish.” Whatever.

Lucy Hale and Ian Harding as Ezra and Aria on Pretty Little Liars kiss in the rain S02E17 2

Umbrella

You talk about Derrida, explaining the plot of a play. One that you’ll write. And this 5 minute, joke free, impassioned as prosthetically¬†enhanced Matt Damon, conversation segment, catches my breath like a hoover in a corner; unexpectedly. And what I wanted to say evaporates like moisture right out of roast chicken at hot heat in the hundredth minute. I stutter and say that you’ve ruined me and you apologise like it’s an actual thing: ruining me. Like you didn’t do that already and know that you did and it wasn’t philosophy doing it then. Just you, years ago.

Your voice turns on like a lectureship and I’m equal in these minutes, in the middle of them, frittering grip on my usually ready¬†ripostes. Even if your references aren’t things I’ve read (are they ever?), I take like communion or delicacies from places I’ve not been. I’m no lapsed Catholic. Or that’s exactly it; I’m lapsing, constantly, relapsing, like an alcoholic or chronically ill person unsure when attacks happen. And this is chaos, this all is. Purgatory, like a Comic-Con queue in winter: 4 hours to see an old Doctor Who, and even then, no guarantee the photo opportunity’s open, is there?

We’re picking over language. Less is lost, than was. And I like you best on the phone, as you light cigarettes, make coffee and RT bad quotes by Albert Einstein. Someone on Twitter asks where you are – they’ve not seen you online in a while. My heart beating like central heating, I head-perfect an inscription for you. But language is fallible. Out of context. And that’s the point. Pick an errant sentence, tell me what it means. Don’t misinterpret me yet.

aria ez rain