What a Dream I HadJill Essbaum Alexander
and you were in it. First we made the bed, and then we stripped it. And then, we strapped each other to ourselves and did rough things while wrapped in creamy linens. Ghost, we played, beneath pristine sheets. I lost each mother-may-I game. You cried when you came and I laughed, laughed, laughed at the certainty of our dirty curtains. But the blighted, white sentry of sleep (as is custom) arrived at sun-up, left its post. And when I woke I was alone. And the morning did nobody justice. And the room felt like my own room, only it was under water. And I was a kind of fire you couldn’t put out. The aftermath of sex is always doubt.
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