I dreamt last night of never-ending plains, and I thought: maybe I can be a tornado next time. Maybe I can hold it close while keeping arm's length. Maybe I can make time zones disappear. Maybe I'll be able to talk to ghosts. Maybe I'll toast to us before everything ends. Maybe the birds will be many things, both best friends and flightless wings. Maybe I'll marry a pilot. Maybe I already did. Maybe I'll stay long enough to not miss the credits this time. Maybe it’s okay if I don’t. Maybe I'll phone up the storm clouds and give them my gratitude. Maybe I'll pray for rain. Maybe my hands will be too weak to pray. Maybe I'll be born Catholic. Maybe I already was and the guilt was a cheap umbrella. Maybe I stayed on my weak knees. Maybe it never rained. Maybe I'll swallow guilt whole and sleep until next summer. Maybe summer will never end. Maybe I'll make a few less mistakes. Maybe I'll make every mistake and not worry about apologizing. Maybe I'll apologize until I'm pathetic. Maybe I won't mind being pathetic. Maybe you'll forgive me anyway, even if I'm pathetic. Maybe I'll wait on the side of the road and once you pull over, you'll say: I'm not sure if you're a pirate or a hitchhiker. Maybe I'll get kidnapped by a hitchhiker. Maybe I'll like it. Maybe I will. There's a very good chance that I will. Maybe I'll be a little better about cold weather next time. Maybe I won't forget to bring a sweater. Maybe I'll learn to knit. Maybe, but I doubt it. Maybe I'll see it through before I'm over it. Maybe I'll never get over it. Maybe I'll just be happy to be here. Maybe I'll finally see where here is. Maybe you'll ask my name. Maybe I'll forget yours. Maybe I'll let you know how it goes. Maybe I will. Maybe I'll spare you the details. Maybe it's better that way. Maybe it is. Maybe it is. Maybe it is. We'll see.