I woke up
on the other side of eyelids
where all the people and events recline
coagulated into a mess of y’all and let’s go!
Anthony Bourdain has preoccupied my mind for a few days, so has the cover
of my new book, a few enemies and the eventual perhaps of Paris.
Exes and hexes
Juvenile excitement of the small things
Old journals and the discomfort of long flights.
Anthony is my love interest in this reality
He has bought us tickets to Paris—but the Pandemic, I say
He is perplexed
He picks me up from (school?)
He is hovering over me so he kneels to meet my gaze
He shows me the book he made of all my writings
It feels important and well crafted
I run to my (room?) and flip through it, he comes in and says to get ready,
Grab what I need.
We head to the airport and I forget my jacket,
A man offers up his, but asks for some information so that I can return it—
He grabs my breasts and I remember all the men who have grabbed my breasts
Without permission.
Anthony sits waiting, says he hated the look of the guy from the start.
Flash.
We’re in Paris and the sun is setting, I look over to Anthony and his face starts
To glitch in and out of focus.
He is holding my book.
He hands it to me.
I wake up.
