Minty

Last night I dreamt you were minty fresh and in my kitchen.

The night before you were in the bathroom. Still minty, always minty. And green, or the room was green. You were normal in terms of colour. You were just the right amount of pretty, and you were mine, you were mine.

Except, now that I think about it, I can’t promise it was you for sure. The details have been bleached away by the morning, but there are a few things my memory can cling on to for a few seconds longer –

The kitchen is from my childhood, although you are not. We are standing next to the sink. There is no particular reason for this. I am trapped between your arms, though you are barely touching me; I am motionless and we both are silently daring you to make your move. The world outside makes no sound. No birds, children, lawnmowers, none of that shit. We are the world; in my dream we are everything.

Somehow, your forearms are mesmerising. I cannot look away. They’re nicer than even your eyes or hair.

So now we’re trapped, always, in the dreams, trapped in this moment that is in-between the less good bits, the during and after bits. All we are is anticipation and we cannot let anything break the spell.

Morning always breaks it, and then if on occasion I should see you, see you just walking around like nothing ever happened, smelling like oranges or some other waif, it breaks it all some more. You hold no power during these moments, these nothings.

When I wake up my husband is dozing. He no longer kisses me the way you do, in fact, he probably never has. I want to remember the way your lips taste so that I can transplant them into his kiss, but already I have forgotten how you did it; all I can cling to is your effect.

Somewhere else, you are waking up, or sleeping up, and are not minty, nor fresh, nor in my kitchen.