(above what I woke up saying, around 3:30 am)

I dreamt last night that Angela stole my fleece jacket, even though she had one of her own. Her’s was tan, mine’s green. I was very distressed. She’s not a stealer. That seemed wrong even in my dream-life.

But it was real to the point that I half-awake had to think of where exactly my jacket was (hanging on a hook in my closet), and that I very badly wanted to tell her (I’m not sure why) that she shouldn’t wear my green jacket zipped all the way up like she did her tan one.

She looked very happy and unbeknownst of her klepto and zippered ways, so that’s good.

I don’t know why, but sometimes I dream that very nice people are very mean to me. which is not so good.

Something about writing on here makes all of my sentences terse and fragmented.

Today the air is thick

with heat and things

undone and doing. You look

up, you don’t. I say hello

to you, I look at the nothing

beside you.

It’s July and you

are already telling me

that the season has gone

by too quickly.

It is the shade of

happening. It is the looking

up or beside.

AuthorBeth Ables