I’m dreaming.
I can’t remember what you smell like.
That loss is no dream.
But in my dream
I steal a long-sleeved t-shirt from your drawer
(I somehow live across the hall)
in a rush, like a criminal.
In the dream, we’re still not talking.
The smell isn’t quite right
(even dreaming me knows it’s not yours)
but it’s something.
In the dream, you discover it’s gone
and I’m immediately, irrevocably embarrassed
and sneak it back, draping the sleeves
over the dresser drawer knobs.
Morning light tugs at me in the real world beyond
I begin to float upward toward consciousness
but not before my dream self hopes
you’ll understand
and bring it back to me to keep.