“You could tell me there is still snow on the mountaintop. You could say the birds were all jays. You could say, “Sean, there is a place in San Francisco where the street is pressed with seashells.” Dear one, you could whisper such dreams in my ears; you could sketch symbols on postcards and chalk secrets on the cement. We could lay together, wishing, joined in fingertip. You could tilt your head toward mine, and your mouth, up. You could smile like so and shake like this and close & open those big small eyes. You could murmur, “Mmhm.” And you know, I’d rest there softly, and I’d listen, and I’d be sheltered. But I think maybe I think maybe I think I maybe I too would be lying, love.”
