Sometimes I have a dream that I walk out over your deck, and the wood, aged and anchient, it seems, creaks under my feet with the comical predictable onemonapia. I open the back door, which you always lock but in this dream you don't, and I go through the black living room and turn up the stairs, and slide through the small space you leave for air to come through and I see the swell of a hip in the pile of blankets and know you're there.

I want to leap on them but I take off my clothes and walk to the other side of the bed, feel the blinds from your window slide along my twin shoulderblades as I strafe, and then turn the blankets corner down so I may climb into bed with you. Then light radiates and I wake up, the sun in my eyes and divided through the slats in my blinds. I think of you smiling and seeing me off at 2:30 in the morning and how that smile made me stretch lazily out on my bed much later, just entrenched in memory and moonlight. You don't even know that this online diary exists. That's OK. You will, won't you.

The turbine gently hums here, the fan blade slow but sure. The heat from summer sorted and sent, and I can't stop smiling sometimes. You do this to me.

I'm looking to my right and seeing my set of guitar pedals, and the overdrive and echo ones seem appropriate, even though all the readers could fill in their own definition and reason for why. I suppose that's why this is public, yes? But to be a secret chord.

feedback,

Jared