He’s dreaming again. His tongue is running off with him, and he’s pulling at his sleeves like an awkward schoolboy. When I see him I know him. Better than I have in years. His voice is rougher than the palms of his hands or the blue of his eyes. His lips are still moving but they’re out of sync with his words. I’m on his couch again and I don’t know how I got there, there’s a bloom in my body and every time he looks at me they contract and pulse like an out of time heartbeat. I’m in his basement and it’s dark, there’s a window behind me and if we were to sneak out of it there would be gin in our hands. It would taste like pine. I’m on his hammock and looking at the stars like he promised, like I wrote. On the bench in the park his arms fold me like a paper crane, or maybe a fortune teller, his sandpaper voice whispering me a billet-doux in six different languages, three made up, one in sign. He’s dreaming and it’s about me and I know it, but I can’t say it, so I just dream back. Over and over. My hands folding him like paper, ebbing like an ocean.