the man of my dreams

If you sleep with a piece of wedding cake underneath your pillow, you'll dream of the man you're going to marry. Sugared roses, gooey fondant, layers of commitment, edible, crunchy pearls like your grandmother's, and moist cake that sticks in the tines of a fork like the way his smell stays on you all day.

Dreamt of sharing the kitchen with someone-hand over hand, move over so I can open that drawer, graze my cheek while you're salting the pumpkin soup. Wine and one dessert with two spoons. Spoons-a smaller bed because you like to cuddle. Grey weather-and enough socks and movies that it doesn't matter if we stay there all day. Knowing looks and nooks and crooks of arms and legs to rest in.

Dreamt of Paris-of winding streets and winding scarves. Rattan cafe chairs and of walking huddled under one umbrella. Bridges to the safety of open arms and understanding. Heavy coins and cream.

Dreamt finally of mango soda and scratch off lottery cards. And of swimming with sharks, and riding on the back of a Harley. Of my first hockey game, and the first time I met your mother. Writing notes in class about you and dialing you drunk on my way home. Everything blurred together. Old and new. Borrowed and blue. Black and blue. Bruised and pink.

Woke up, and its today. And you're far off. And I'm still here with cake under my pillow.