dimension

last night, we built a fort out of old bed sheets -- little rose buds, giant yellow roses, bamboo, retro squares. we sat inside, on a bare mattress with a light between us. we both wore silk kimonos, and sipped red wine from cracked tea cups. i told you about a balloon that i discovered. it looked like an ordinary balloon -- lavender, full of helium, with a dark purple string. but at night, if  i climbed to the top of a black obelisk in the middle of a japanese city (where it waited for me) i could hold the string and fly anywhere. i could fly in and out of cities, into day, into night, even into memories and time. i flew to a farm, where boys were playing marbles on a dusty road. i flew to buenos aires, and watched a boat race.

but then, one day, someone told me that my balloon was dangerous. that night, when i went to fly again, the string disintegrated in my hands, and the balloon flickered and faded like a face i knew but couldn't remember.

i told you my story, about the balloon. you tackled me, wrestled me, my wine spilled all over the mattress. i laughed. you kissed me: i love you. kissed me again: i love you. and again: i love you.