I dream into an imagined past.

Of swinging Hills Hoists under a ruthless sky and endless innocence in burning summers.
Of sticky mornings and days that last and winds that carry no threat.

Change. Gentle change.
Where boredom and certainty live side by side. Bedfellows in a lemony sunrise.

That's all I want. A heavy, cloying certainty. A sureness.

No surprises. No jolting joys and no more questions.

I want to know that you'll be there next week; flights as regular as flights are.
That we have habits and ways.
Our not identical but always the same coffees, the song of the beer in the bottle, the assurances in sleep.

And that the mysterious stirring in the night time is not a threat.
The sharp jarring of stars on my tongue as I go, rickety and hopeful down the rutted road between my twin pasts.

Long forgotten, oft remembered, I wake.
I wake.

I dream into a different past. I wake into another life.