I was expecting you. I thought it'd be weeks ago, I thought you'd appear angry and cruel, protecting yourself against the hurt I've already caused.
But last night, it was me who began violently--forcing you to stop packing what appeared to be a moving truck (even my dreams go overboard with extended metaphor).
I forcibly grabbed you, held you to me, held you as if I've never held you before (I have, though, I'm remembering once, particularly). You struggled--not with anger but desperation. I wasn't angry either.
And then she came up to us, trying to free you, and uncharacteristically, I told her to fuck off (you've always hated it when I swear--as if my being crass leaves welts on your face).
And all action in the dream stopped.
And then you sighed and told her to fuck off, too, and you came willingly to a beach. We were supposed to go to the beach together, but we never did make it.
It wasn't a quiet time, the remainder of the dream. It was my Winterson fairy-tale, my sonnet extended to every fantasy I ever held to you, to us.
And now I don't know what to do.
I've been thinking of you, lately, obssessively almost. Guilt. Regret. Wondering if I should have done things differently, if I could have.
People have been comparing our writing. We write on the same level, I've been told. Of course, I don't believe them. I worship your writing. Each entry you write is more rotund, more vital, more lush. I worship it and desire to weave half the fabric you do.
It could be that I did make a mistake in pushing you away. But I didn't know myself any longer, which in turn took any knowledge of you away, so how could I have known us?