Sea shell, snowshoe, circumstance

In last night's dream I could run pretty fast:
tenth place in the 5k that involved climbing 
wobbly circus ladders through plastic sheeting.
I did not stop for water. When I got home,
Lady Gaga received me well in my bed.

Then I drove five hours north to see you in 

Montreal, a place in which neither of us has
ever lived. 

I stayed with you, your wife, and your kids in
your rambling split level. I tried to Sharpie
I love you inside the pink unmentionables
of a souvenir sea shell. 

I was going to leave it for you atop a roll 
of toilet paper. I smeared the ink before it 
had a chance to dry. Typical me.

I was undaunted. I could get by without it.
You knew, in this dream. 
And you loved me back 
(the difference = everything - nothing).

You would continue living in a city that 
neither of us has ever called home  
and I would--
well, who knows what I would do?

You helped pack my car as she feigned
disappointment over my departure,
so soon!

I'd brought too much, as I always do.
The lone snowshoe scraped my knuckle
as your warm palm slipped under mine,
our hands hidden in the bungee'd
detritus of the car roof. You smiled and I 
gladly stopped breathing. Didn't need it,
not anymore, useless breath.

(the difference = everything - nothing)

I knew and you knew.
There was comfort in that, finally.
Sea shell, snowshoe and circumstance 
be damned.