And, I dreamed my dreams for her. I dreamed her seventeen and cocky,
mouth full of curse words, no man or mother to burden her. I dreamed
her in white shorts and a matching white tube top sitting on the
cleanest set of steps on 148th Street, brown-bag bottled and cigarette
behind the ear, I dreamed her long-legged and fish-fried. She always
had a taste for fish: cornmeal, a little flour, and black pepper soft
and flaky between her thumbs, wrapped inside wonder bread and hot
sauce. I dreamed her dancing and laughing, loud and obnoxious,
vaselined and baby powdered.. I dreamed her without me. Beautiful,
without a misery, excuse, duty, or responsibility. I dreamed her,
because I loved her.

But, she does not love me. She is selfish and deprecating, linear
minded, and all the time occupied with everything, everyone, the ways
and the going ons, the who's and the happenings but never, ever, me.
At first, I thought it was my fault for not looking like her enough.
If I looked like her more, she would love me more. Then I thought, if
I acted more like her, she could find herself in me. But, she did not,
and I could not become her. And, I learned to be satisfied with loving
her in a dream. All the way until now.