I dreamed of you, in a car.
The kisses were real,
like the awkward tangles
of our embraces.
‘They’re only kisses,’ you said,
with no illusions of love.
But our breath followed our heartbeat,
and the hours kept flowing.
‘They’re only kisses,’
lit by passing headlights,
marking the rhythm of pleasure.
But it was a dream,
broken at dawn and never resumed.
The door closed — perhaps blown shut
by the wind of happiness fleeing.
Grey check marks, relentless,
are your new costume.
What remains is that dream,
written in a notebook,
beside the lost bet:
Transylvania in autumn,
and the teeth sinking in,
spreading blood and pain.
I won’t be able to pay it,
because the dream is over.
All that remains
is the memory of the kisses.