lucid dreams.

To each other, they felt like lucid dreams. Him, with his spools of hair and she with her chopped locks and splintered eyelashes.
He picked out details from his mouth of pocketed stories, planting them as bouquets before her. She painted him unicorns and cupcakes, and other days, sketched her fragmented ideas on his newspaper.

She strung christmas lights about their grey abyss of a flat. They turned their rooms into seasons: autumn, spring, fall and summer spotted with coats of paint. They had picnics on the roof of their complex and she wrote their memoirs on the ceiling.
In her loose handwriting, she scrawled:

They had met on a pirate ship, walking the plank together without fear, as conquistadors of the horizon before them. They had found each other in pockets of posies, behind the roots of trees and in the sutures of their lips. They had discovered the other in the flourish of greens behind their fields of history one boundless day.

They grew into the last page of stories, unraveled each other's knots of tension until they were dissolved into sugar-water. She was full with her paint-speckled hands and his golden fingertips. They laid on their pile of blankets of a bed and whispered, "Let's be Bonnie and Clyde, okay? Only, we'll make it in the end."And so it was. They were scoundrels and parallels together.
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