I dreamt about you once, when tiny raindrops cascaded across the windowpane. I dreamt about you once, when the snowflakes covered the woodlands and made it too cold to go outside for weeks. I dreamt about you once, when the wind rushed through the aspens, and the tall grass grew to its fullest. I dreamt about you once when I watched The Crimps and painted toes like no others, no tiny grains of sand. How long will I only be a few sheets of paper, and stamps, and envelopes?
How many more words must be shared before I could see your smile? The way your lips part to speak. The way your hair looks when touched by the wind? How long will I mildew in your past? When I look out over this bay, every ripple, each waves of thought, memory of you. And there are so many ripples, so many waves. The fragrance and taste of you is still in the air. The softness of your skin is still up on my fingertips.
At night, sleepless and long must I endure, creating mysterious faces and bodies that are not yours.
(Sound of a cell door closing.) These commentaries are recorded by Noelle Hanrahan of Prison Radio.
