I dreamed about you on some back channel of my mind this morning. I almost didn't remember, and when I did, in not much detail. I was talking to your sister. She was telling me how beautiful you were, as though I didn't know that. I offered to empty a large cart filled with recyclables for her. It would have taken several minutes at the dumpster. I remember hoping and dreading at once that you might arrive while I was working there.
In another story, I had taken a bus from Lowell to San Diego and then a train a little further north to San Juan Capistrano where the swallows are said to be. I had vague directions from there, so I walked up into the hills, trying to thumb a ride, carrying an ALICE pack and a seabag on my back. You drove by me on your way home from work. It was awkward there for awhile. I don't know what I'd expected, only what I'd hoped. You told me heroin was like being in love. And you missed it now like a lover.
I walked back down out of those hills with the heavy bags and boarded a bus to Seattle. Now I was ready to leave.
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