When you have a big dream, for your life, the floors are never dusty of those rooms where the dream lives. Dust is composed almost entirely of dead skin cells and who carries their cumbersome bodies into the edges of their dreams? (Lovers).

When you watch me sweep the floors, does the dream end or does it begin?

Or will we finally say something true like, “I am so happy to be in pleasure with you in this dying body.”

I am so happy that these floorboards remind us of our constant flux, our process of slow molting. That we become new as we writhe or as we sit and sip coffee and talk about your Dad.

That the floorboards do not know who is who as one particle settles next to another. That we become one in our shared discard pile. That I can gently gather these fragments of who we were yesterday from the corners of this dream. That we all do gently gather these fragments, and assemble them into tiny mountains, and ladle those tiny mountains into soft vessels, and usher those irreverent urns towards a cement slab where they await some larger, carbon union via Le Canyon Artifice. That all of our neighbors do this. That we all do this on the same day. That we all parade from our doorways in intervals under guise of the mundane.