She had this dream that she shared with him because she wanted to share everything with him and he confided in her that he had the same dream as well. She was pleased and not very surprised because they were always on the same level of consciousness, so much that she considered the two of them to be an intricate arrangement of crossing paths and laths or a partially ordered set of two elements containing supremum and infimum, respectively.
As they shared this mutual dream of expansive redundancy and never-ending nothingness, they began to expand upon it, contributing their personal variations of details and the dream grew, it grew so large that they could barely contain it and would spend hours outside in the purple moonlight with this alternate reality, sharpening it’s edges until they blurred, building tiny soldiers and insects, imagining a family together and creating vibrant abscondence for their firearms out of opium poppies.
Her perspective of this dream was so special, so idealized, so entirely them that it became heaven to her and she could almost die. Little did she know he was recycling this world they had created together and using it to entice others. She did not know, hadn’t the slightest inkling but still, it hurt her. Tiny daggers in her side as lesser women with better bodies strutted around the garden SHE had created in their cheap stripper heels. Dagger in her side, dagger in her side. To her, everything was so perfect so she could never understand why she began to wake up with her side bleeding. Dagger in her side, daggers inside.
