At 3:33 I woke up from a dream in which you and I were sitting at the table in the back yard with a sort of Santa Claus grandfatherly character. My eyes were burning red and your eyelashes were wet from tears. I looked at you while you sat stone still, watching him tell us that the only thing that really matters are secrets. That if we can't share secrets, then we can't share anything. "If you share your ugliest secrets," he said, "that's love." He kept saying "secrets" as if he was really getting a kick out of it. Like he was trying to make sure we caught on to the key word for tomorrow's pop quiz.


I'd be happy to just get past the shallows, ankle deep and drowning.