"...and poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets."

i have a habitual first line.

"i had me a dream..."

maybe you've noticed how frequently i use it. or maybe not- which is the idea - to be so sublime. it's funny to reflect on how often i've started these with that same line. as if to illuminate this feeling i have that such things are more acceptable if conjured up subconsciously. in many ways, it eliminates accountability. conscious thoughts carry weight and consquence- they're too inviting and vulnerable. and think! of all the times someone has said to you, "why would you think that?" countless. and then all of the times that someone has said "why would you dream that?" likely never. it's because we're not responsible for what we dream. it's out of our control.

and so...

i had me a dream...

where i stood and bore witness to you melting into a pool of limbs and sinew that hardened and formed and tangled and penetrated. that held you like roots and tied and realized that you could not be satisfied until you were tied to the earth- through the floors of your cave. and all around, the history of your life was painted on its walls. and to see you there- i would take up a brush and ink and i would change the names of faces and places and leave no trace of that caved existance so that no other could recognize or lay claim to that life lived. and as you stretched and grew, i would trim your branches and rake your leaves and harvest your fruit. and while your roots thickened and reached down deeper for nourishment in underground waterways, i would sit beneath you, smoking cigarettes and i would tell you the history of my life. of my thoughts as real thoughts and not dreams. to the place where i at once folded those minutes together and set you apart. at first, cloudy upon reflection. impossible and altered and covered in dust that would have invarriably settled. and from there, recall the seeds that collected and grew like weeds into that initial pull. that wish to be stained by an ink that goes deeper. like those rhythmic raised dots of braille in their intensely foreign language. and lay in wait for the sensitive fingertips that could receive and decipher such code. and that i wanted to be that patient and that willing. to set someone apart and be set apart. and the grief of being torn apart instead. nothing novel, but to shift and rearrange as if to say, 'this one too'. and you would sway and creak and the weight of such breath would bring you down. and i would aimlessly but tirelessly count your rings- not to win or even wish or to prove a point.
but just to say
that i have secrets too.