Sometimes I think of long lace hemlines, following a trail of white petals
and tree branches arching to form a dome,
sunlight dappling the green leaves like stained glass in a cathedral
But that’s not what I dream of.
Instead, I dream of black nights that turn into dim mornings
where we crowd the couch
And you play your guitar while we sing, voices cracking
and when we look at each other with blood-shot eyes,
we can’t help but laugh.
I dream of rain slapping our skin when we run, arm in arm, for cover,
my jeans are soaked, I shake from the cold, but your hands are warm
I dream of alarms ringing in the apartment, smoke billowing from the pan,
Because I burned the eggs again, the steam and smell of soap and grease
when I scrub the pan and make toast instead–
and you insist you don’t care—
but I make up for it with coffee later.
I dream of long trips, arms out the window and arguing over who’s going to drive
or who gets the radio station this time
because I’m tired of your folksy rock and you really,
really don’t want to listen to Beyonce
but we both do it anyway.
If I dream of a white dress, it has stains from the coffee we shared.
If I dream of petals, they’ve been drenched by rain and torn and trampled by our dancing.
Don’t tell me what I dream of isn’t beautiful because it’s messy and flawed.
For a thing of joy is a thing of beauty forever.
