I had a dream about you. we were sharing a cigarette on the pier and talking about the past. it was you who was talking— I listened like I always do. you told me that when you were younger you slid your motor- cycle straight under a truck. your ex-wife was fatally injured and you still carry the scars on your back. and while you are talking about your wife I’m thinking that the real tragedy is not your scars but that I can’t put my mouth on them.
in another dream I got my wish though we were not different people but merely ourselves. you had no dead wife and it was me who was hurt. you were probing my cuts with bandaged fingertips and the fabric was soaked red, still your hands stayed clean.
but these are only dreams. I do not get to tongue your wounds and you do not cut me open. there are no crashes and no bikes and no scars and no dead lovers. our bodies are immaculate and the asphalt doesn’t glitter with glass. there are only these bright bodies that do not intersect—
but to see the stars one need only dream.
scars
WILDsound Writing Festival 