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“ She fell asleep herself a couple of hours later, still thinking of everything she’d talked about with Harry. That night, she dreamed that she was a pirate captain and Harry was a stowaway on her ship. They sat together in her well appointed room, Harry listening to the stories of Louis’ exploits with a sparkle in her eye. The crew came in to join them, all of them dykes and each one welcoming Harry happily. The dream stayed with her when she woke up the next morning, and she laid in bed smiling at the thought of having started on a journey with Harry, just as Zayn had predicted.”
***
The dream stuck with Louis throughout the next day, and by the time she returned home from work she was itching to write about it. She made herself a cup of tea, setting up a spot next to her open window to enjoy the breeze, and pulled out her journal to write.
Dreamt of Harry last night. I was a pirate, and she was a stowaway on my ship. I found her as the boat was cutting through the water-- somehow we were sailing even if I wasn’t there to do it --and she was right there on the deck, in plain sight but hidden from everyone else. When I approached her she started to apologize, saying she didn’t belong, her voice rising with fear and anxiety. She looked so frightened. So sure I’d toss her overboard.
I took her hand as the ship tilted to one side, drawing her close and holding her steady until I felt her relax into me and the ship righted itself. Her green eyes were reminiscent of land, the only land I could picture myself longing for, and I told her as much as she looked back at me, wide-eyed and lovely.
Then we were inside my room, the boat rocking gently with the two of us sitting on my bed, legs folded beneath us and only our knees touching. I told her about the first time I’d sailed, how scared I’d been, and then a story about diving for treasure, producing a string of pearls from the pocket of my pants and fastening it around her neck as she sighed back at me, soft with longing.
I told her she was precious, and she shook her head, told me I was the precious one. She slid a ring from her own finger onto mine, then kissed it with the softest press of her lips, her head bowed but her eyes tilting up to me. I wanted her so badly, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
Instead I told her so many stories that they blurred together, everything I’d ever done spilling out of me. She treated each detail like a jewel, holding them between her fingers, her eyes gleaming with delight at every single one.
The other women arrived one by one. I say arrived, but it’s more that I noticed they were there. My eyes would leave Harry for a second and I’d see another dyke and another-- the room never filled up, simply growing to accommodate more and more of us. I felt so surrounded with love, and I wanted Harry to feel it too. I told her they loved her, and she looked suddenly shy, ducking her head, shaking it.
I touched her cheek, asking her to look at me, and she did. Then I told her again and again, “they love you,” until I felt like she believed it. And then she kissed me, soft yet hungry, and everything around us fell away until we were out on the ship’s deck with the moon high in the sky and the sound of the waves around us. It felt like we could go anywhere, do anything.
Then there was daylight and the start of another adventure as I awoke.
I like her so much. I knew I did from the first moment, but talking last night just felt so right, like every moment was alight with this special spark. Magical. I want this date to go well. I want to call her later tonight and talk until we’re both tired, say goodnight and dream about her again. I want her to dream about me, too. Maybe I’ll ask her what she dreamed about?
Part of me feels like I’m going too fast, like I’m falling and won’t be able to stop. But is that really so bad? What if she’s doing the same thing? What if we’re meant to fall like this?
Louis looked out the window, finally setting her pen aside and taking a few sips of her now room temperature herbal tea. She fished the bag out, squeezing it into her cup until it was dry before setting it on the sill. The late afternoon sky was still a bright, perfect blue, and Louis wondered to herself where Harry was at this moment. Was she still at work, unable to see anything but grey walls and too bright overhead lights? Was she walking along some city street, tilting her head back to admire the sky too? Or maybe she was in a supermarket deciding between two opposing brands of canned vegetables, possibly thinking she should buy something fresh instead and not thinking of the sky at all?
With that thought, Louis looked toward her own refrigerator, remembering how empty it was. She was the one who needed to be shopping for vegetables, not Harry.
“But first,” she said aloud after taking a large sip of tea, “I’m writing a poem.”
This wasn’t always Louis’ process for writing poetry, but occasionally she found that journaling allowed her to draw out her thoughts in long form so that she could compress them down to their most essential parts for a poem. That was definitely the case today, the words she’d just written feeling positively ripe and ready to be plucked out to create the bones of a poem.
Picking up her pen again, Louis closed her eyes and took a breath before allowing herself to start her poem.
Her fingertips slip over a string of pearls, one by one, and I
spill forth at her touch, the delicate way her hands move,
eyes dancing as her laugh-- like a song --trips through the air, landing
at my feet, bare and dirty.
I’ve dug into the ground, found the X at the spot
that was marked on the map I drew for myself when nobody handed me one.
My fingertips, dark from the earth, slide over treasure
buried deep
As her eyes, green as growing grass, invite me inside;
Invite me home.
If she asks me to stay, I’ll give her everything I’ve unearthed
so far. If she wants it, that is.
Turning my head to the blue sky, I clasp my hands together to pray:
Let her want it.
Let her want me.
Louis paused with her pen on the period at the end of the last line, reading her work over once, twice. Already there were things she would change, but that wasn’t the plan for now. As she usually did with her poetry, she set it aside. This wouldn’t be the last or only draft of this poem she wrote, but at least it would be there, waiting for her to consider what to do with it later.
Finishing her tea, Louis opened her journal and read the poem once more. She was tempted to just keep writing (and she probably should), but the nearest grocery store wasn’t open very late, and she very much wanted to be home to call Harry at the same time she had last night. Besides, there’d be time for more poems later. Maybe she’d end up with a whole chapbook’s worth of poems about Harry, eventually.