I had a dream last night and you were in it.
There are fleeting images that I remember in the morning as I stretch my legs, crack my neck, roll over to face the sunlight. Something about a city in the fog. I think we had dinner with some academics and talked about paddle boarding. I boarded a steamboat and watched you grow smaller on the shore. I moved into a library and slept on a bed of Virginia Woolf novels. You worked at a coffee shop and we built a fire indoors. There was a field of wheat that moved like the ocean in the wind and a dog swam through it. I found myself locked in a haunted room and you were no where to be seen. We were chased by corrupt police and hid in a stairwell beneath a warehouse building. Some strangers in rusted pick-ups let us ride in the bed of their trucks and offered a place to sleep in the night.
You were everywhere and nowhere all together, surrounding me and still not enough.
But you were in it, and I sleep easier at night.