deep creek dreamer justwrite

In my dream, Mateo's room fills with water and no one is concerned. We can wipe the writing off wet walls with our fingertips. In a few days, you won't know it was ever there. When I close my eyes, my bed has tides, and I almost fall in just before I fall asleep. Taylor is on solid ground, his feet planted, growing roots. There is a watering can in my left hand, a seed in my center. Walking down a dark street at night, I see someone familiar. She asks about my life as if it is a story worth telling. I like her hair and need another bus ticket, for Taylor, realizing his roots don't reach the state where I live. When I am awake, I know this room is empty, void of water except the condensation on the window, and that Mateo is in a place that isn't mine, isn't ours. I touch the walls with my fingertips and they look the same afterward. I touch these pages and their words don't smear. There are still tides, rocking my organs like wrinkled arms rock newborn people, whole people who have nothing but what others give them. I don't remember learning to sit up by myself. I only remember people carrying watering cans in their left hands, walking through gardens as big as small continents, trying to find the weeds.