“Weightless”


“Weightless”

You always show up at night
in my dream
like a woman with eternal
luggage in her hand.
You told me
without words
that I was not welcome
in your dream.
My embarrassment
at this realization
was something
I
could
taste.

In my dream,
we had fallen from the sky
and landed on a street lined with houses.
The Dream-Makers were there.
They were men
wearing suits and ties,
dark wide-brimmed hats,
briefcases held firmly at their sides
clutching clipboards that held the contents
of the next dream they were
to conduct.
We explained to them that
they should pick two different people,
that we were not meant to be.
Instead, they handed us a map
with directions,
pointed us down a road,
pushed us onward
gently nudging us from the
backs of shoulders.
The mission at hand, they said:
"Find home."
And, so we set out,
front windows of the houses
rallying us
with their warm light.
There were no restaurants on the street,
no bars,
no grocery stores or quick-marts
to run inside
for the last forgotten item
before the show.
No cigarette sellers
or hideaway thrift stores
that sold costume jewelry
for a bargain
to mascara-dweller-girls
who
just
wanted
to
shine.

No, there were only houses and the moon
and interlocking streets,
exaggerated, at least doubled in size
in my dream,
laid out before us
as though we were starting from the beginning,
as though this path was a
stretched out canvas
and finding home
was art.

We walked, with maps in hand.
We read the signs
without asking each other
what we thought they meant.
I felt a hum
that was actually just silence,
ours,
and a cry that I kept harnessed
in hopes that it would hold.

And I couldn't freeze this way,
in my fear,
in my sadness.
I had to keep moving.
You knew it, too.
We had, instead,
to focus
on our objective
and so we walked
estranged and a part.
Even our shadows refused to touch
and you worked to increase your stride
so that they wouldn't.
And then, something happened.
Something that neither of us
expected.
We looked up
at the moon
and
saw that,
as an Act of Love,
it bought the sky,
lit our steps,
surprised us.
Our feet rose up off the ground
And something carried us
higher.
I can't explain it.
Invisible strings?
Or our own strength?
It was one of the two.
I'm not sure which,
but we floated.
You and I floated,
arms stretched out like children
pretending to be airplanes.
And I turned when you turned
and my wings were your wings.
I saw both of us from outside of us.
Could you see us, too?
Ethereal women
we rode the air in slow motion
and you never spoke
but you're the one who took
my hand first,
gripped it tightly.
That much, I remember
because it made me feel
that you never meant to leave.
It made me feel
that it was impossible to crash.
We floated farther down the street.
The Dream-Makers didn't tell us this
but I found out later it was
all just one great big
circle
that we went
around and around.
When I figured it out
I didn't tell you
on purpose.
Maybe I should have
but I didn't want you
to stop flying.

And now I know.
Now I know
what the lightness with which we traveled
meant:
We were weightless.
For one night,
you and I
were weightless.
And this, I thought,
is what forgiveness feels like.

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