I dreamt about you last night and I…want to know, is there a cure?

It’s kismet. It’s a dream so, of course it fucking is. I’m wearing these ridiculous bright green leg warmers, capri gym trousers, like I’m going for a run or to aerobics. I leave people I know, and ten steps out, there you are, across the road, matching my pace: your home’s the way we’re going, so it makes some sense to be there. You’re like, “Fate. Shit.” And I say, “Sure. You don’t believe that, do you?” But against odds, or only in this momentary jolt, you believe it. With me, you do. And we’re both dumber for knowing the other, in this way. Because reason is like an optional extra, an on the side salad dressing we wouldn’t start to drizzle, unless we had to.

You invite me over. I don’t make excuses like in real life when we walked this route, when I knew we’d see your family, worried what they’d think, of us together, years later, like this. Being a dream, they say what I wish they would. “Hi,” I think. Then the narrative skips, a scene deemed unimportant by the director, even if clues in it, prepare us for later deaths or laughs or kisses.

In town, the people I know ask about you, where you are, and I say, “Why would I know where one Facebook friend is over another?” Their smiles call bluffs, and work, because, like an earlier appearance, you walk past the shop that we’re in, and they open their eyes wide like a secret’s unwrapped like a chocolate box, like a ribbon. I go to grab you, but can’t find you in the street, or through windows, and when I’m back at the people I know, there you are, too, sat in the middle of them, like a commuter with not enough space for a briefcase, or arms.

The people I know are less judgemental now, move to let me sit there, and you hand me a present. “Why did you get this? You didn’t have to get me this.” It’s a necklace. It has three guitars on it. I have no idea why three guitars, or guitars even, and under your breath you say, “Matching,” and I know that, somewhere under your shirt is the same. I wonder if your wife bought you it, or your girlfriend. You put mine on. I wake up.

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The Person Falling Here Is Me

This song weaves between films, tv shows and films until, ingrained, it plays Ben’s bed or Jim’s shirt and Mike’s hand and it fills every meal plate up and makes conversation whir, and stirs every almost whim, and could make anybody come, stay, would sieve any leavers out so that seriousness lingers. Linger. Which is another The Cranberries song. Six degrees and separation of.

Let Me Motherfucking Love You

You can make a decision to love someone. I’m not saying I did this, but old exercise books have eligible men’s names drawn inside of hearts and popularity drove it, made it happen. It wasn’t a fateful, no choice in the pick, but an attractiveness scale and girl group to impress. They thought they were The Spice Girls. A tribute act doesn’t have to even look like the original, going by the ones I’ve seen, but maybe that’s England all over.

You were a decision in word only so I made a moat and rewrote cards I’d already written so you’d think my words weren’t meaningful.

What I know I suppress, and it’s only in the dreams I reveal my bent bra hooks to you and the hanging threads from my one pound Primark pants. And I want a worse judgement, to put-off, but yours is a fascinated face and when I wake up, I sense the wait in the seconds the clambering would’ve taken and I want to dream-learn, to dip into the memories of the dreams I did have. Instead, I end up in the ones I’m already dead, getting ready to die again, pursued, consistently, by the mighty and wrong.