Spillt Ink

He spoke of his dreams, he spoke of his dreams and then he asked, what sort of dreams do you have?  This is what I should have said.

House dreams. Surrealistic well lived-in houses with mazes and hidden rooms, with closets full of forgotten objects, with nooks full of shelves and the shelves full of paperbacks. Tables and mantels in lamp-lit rooms covered with knickknacks, such a multitude of glass and metal, wood and porcelain mementos that there isn't even room for dust. Houses with balconies opening to first floor rooftops, potted plants, hanging plants, patio furniture that is made from wicker, or sometimes made of iron and wood. Rooms filled with laundry, unmade beds, dirty dishes in kitchens with more than one sink. Houses with a hundred doorways, a thousand windows, dark woodwork and blue carpet in some rooms and bare floor boards with rag rugs in others. Houses with ceilings lost in the distance. Houses with stairways leading to a dozen bedrooms, stairways narrowing to crawl spaces. Houses with lovers hidden in living rooms and houses with children in the nursery that I cannot remember giving birth to or remember naming but I know they are mine even though they cry when I hold them.