the inconsistancy of dreams.

if it at all had mattered, the equation would have worked out where we could subtract the east from the westcoast, adding years but deducting decades, to find ourselves slummed somewhere in the middle. i’d be receiting french poetry with a bad accent in your left ear and you’d be filming a documentary on the art of making documentaries, and late at night we’d sprawl our legs on the couch and eat out of the same bowl of lucky charms, our eyes transposed on infomercials or the midnight movie about the husband who cheats and the wife who takes him back after years of embarassment. and you’d look over, and in your most professional stare you’d say in an almost ominous and serious tone “i’d never do that to you” and my eyes would meet yours for a second, and just before the passing exchange of sighs and the milk dripping down the side of our lips, just before the holding-on-to-your-side-hysteria and the almost evasive laughter, i’d probably for a moment believe every promise that came fumbling out of your mouth. and then i’d wake up with a digustingly misplaced smile, clenching my arms together and tightly forcing my face to stay scrunched but i’d already know how i’d never quite really be able to return.