In my dream he won’t watch the dog when I leave and he doesn’t like it when I teasingly compliment his partner even though we’ve been fucking for years.
In my dream it’s day four locked inside the apartment and information is scarce. When the cars reverse direction up the street we can’t tell what they are running from. I’m pissing into a box, carefully. We never get the food we want.
In my dream our sex is an optimistic ritual, and supervised.
In my dream the right post of my glasses falls off, having come unscrewed. Small parts scatter across the carpet.
In my dream: a rounded field.
In my dream the shape of a shirt thrown over a back.
In my dream wading through stacks of instructions then: “Ugh, nobody wants to do a shot!”
In my dream when I arrive at the top floor every surface is covered in undulating tiles of marble: it’s now a hospital for the remaining aged members of this blindingly wealthy family. They gasp and plod among the doctors and lights. I’m leaving and how will I find the things I had stashed earlier?
In my dream there is cabbage cooked in red wine near Rockefeller center and a fur coat on the stones.
In my dream when I put on the black cotton cassock and kiss his feet as he walks, it’s kind of a joke and also kind of a fetish thing.
In my dream the fight starts bitter and ends as an inconclusive tussle: stuff is strewn around, people are winded. Later the art we made about each other is laid out on painted plinths.