I began with a poem about the ideal dreamlike 16th century courtship between Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, and I end with something more contemporary. Similar dreamy idyllic moments, but completely different realities. How will this story turn out? Read on…

My head rests against his breastbone

The canopy closing us in a cocoon of our own

Away from all forms of scrutiny

As I lean in to kiss him

My heart is like a lake brimming over in the monsoons

Filled not with water

But a positively caffeinated hormonal cocktail

I know I am not dreaming

As I smell his cologne

Perfumed diesel, after effects of a jeep breakdown and a spare tire change

A stormy calm

Before a calm, bubbling storm

I lean back

I look into his face

Pleasant, no doubt

But not what I want, not now

The canopy obscures us from outside scrutiny

But it also obscures the outside world and its treasures from us

And I am impatient and inquisitive to see the rest of it

The torrential monsoon becomes a faint New England drizzle

The lake has had its fill

I am ready to move on

 

Cinema dream sequences usually get the details right

It’s the ends they get wrong

Because in our world, there is more than one type of ideal end

 

“I had a great time.” “Me too.” “We should do this again sometime.”

We get up together, and embrace one last time

Walking back home in opposite directions