It was meant to be innocent,

the time I lied to him. I made up a dream. He was unhappy about
something, had been for weeks.
It was before he confessed that he loved me.

I did have a dream.

In it we were suspended,
in frigid water,
in rushing sky,
sometimes in the air over my bed
sometimes in the crawlspace under my carpet,
faces down, head to head, arms entangled, in free fall.
Twisting, trying to hold on,
getting knotted, then losing hold.
For somehow our arms changed to treacherous tentacles,
to paws without grip, to stiff limbs of trees
that could no longer bend to embrace.

It was sickening. I woke in a sweat.

I knew he was married…not mine.
And depressed…brother’s keeper.

I thought about the dream. How we are not responsible for them. But
they speak of some inner truth.
And the truth I wanted him to hear might be understood if he knew
simply he’d made it into my dream life.

So I made up a dream.

I told him I’d dreamed he’d done eagle arms in yoga, could do better
than the entire class:
He could tie his arms in a knot like Gumby.
He laughed. Said it was the silliest thing he’d ever heard, filled my
inbox with Gumby pictures,
smiled. Sometimes even laughed.

While my real dream took a step closer.