Writing a letter that I’ll never send—except in a dream. Writing it for the dream.

Remembering rolling out the cracker dough. We needed so much meal. Wish I could send you a text only to say that I made them again. 

There are some things I can’t do. The car feels light on the highway. It leans to the left, where I sit in the driver’s seat. There is a spot empty next to me. I can feel the wheels lift off the road. 

Why do I think of you when I’m driving? You couldn’t be further from me. All of the new carpool lanes—taking them with you to the blue on blue of our hotel. The blue on blue with you. 

Everything feels like a dream. In one I tease you for studying too much. In another I watch you pick up the phone and wince into the receiver—he’s calling again. Why doesn’t he understand? 

But I’m the one who doesn’t.