My dream is to breathe the Mediterranean air. My dream is to dance on the dinner table, is to melt into sound, is a never-ending chase. Follow the spiral, my dream says, because a place is also a memory where all the shadows are white. My dreams look like homesickness, like peeling oranges on a hot summer day in my grandpa’s backyard, except in the dream he is still alive and the ocean is still blue. The moment I know I am able to fly is when I see the tree, the leaves swaying, and I jump. Why do I dream of you? Why do I dream in six languages but in each one there are suns floating in a midnight sky? There are three doors named Desire. There is one olive tree full of silver fruit. Write the love, my dream says. I put my memories in a jar. I confess, my secrets glowing like bones on black paper. I dream that everything is romantic, even the ghost in my throat. I dream fearless and hopeful and am woken by kisses in a house of love and flowers. It isn’t a dream anymore. I pull the quiet drawing of a cabin through the frame, open the door, and there you are, dreaming of me.
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