an instance / how I have seen us

This is one instance of how I have seen us:

We could be spines against the wooden floor, quasi-horizontal, comparing daydreams. That would be nice.

I can pull our fortunes out of the garden rocks (they live in parallel universes, across times, like us). I'd hold my blue fingernails around my neck -- around my blue necklace; your fingers might sit somewhere near mine. Or not. Yours might sit closer to you, and this would be good.

Ocre bottles sitting like a seance around us, but not too many. Not all empty. Steady and benevolent. Just there. They're balanced on thick novels and burnt wooden paperweights, all stacked into columns of differing height. Us, too, of differing heights, not only by genetics but the angles at which we lie. A cosy crooked arrangement.

I would find a scrap of torn up newspaper, and a thin-nibbed pen; I would begin writing. It doesn't matter that you are watching. I'm writing about you. It doesn't matter that you are reading. Reading about you. About You. I am writing.

Then I wrap us completely up in newspaper, and all the inky words of the newspaper and my own words (which are words about you) sink into us and singe through our skin... we absorb them all, they all filter into us and burn through our veins into our organs. We know all these words as they enter into us. They are satisfying and legible. So that for a short time, we feel some sense of complete.