And finally, on the seventh day, we invented the dreams. Ssssh, you said, when I wanted us to start inventing something. Because after making all the words, we now knew everything, but everything was just scarier yet. Even the setting sun became a menacing mouth in the sky, a hungry carp mouth with dark tattered corners, breathing dusk-water through bloody cloud-gills. And you became more frightened for each passing day. So we invented the dreams, as people do when there’s nothing left. 

I invented a dream where we stand by the sea with the endless promise of things new and undiscovered, and a dream where we watch the large boats; I invented dreams of frogs and blankets, dreams where every secret is friendly and benign, like coded snippets of love letters in the pockets of 12 year old girls. I invented a dream where our bed is a home, safe and eternal and hidden from the world, and I invented a dream where we have all the words and you tell me everything. I invented a dream where everything is gentle, buzzing June, and the grain fields are yellowing like bread in the oven of summer.  

On the seventh day, I invented the dreams where you are here, warm and breathing, still.

August, 2010