My dream is to breathe the Mediterranean air.My dream is to dance on the dinner table,is to melt into sound, is a never-ending chase.Follow the spiral, my dream says, because a placeis also a memory where all the shadows are white.My dreams look like homesickness, like peelingoranges on a hot summer day in my grandpa’sbackyard, except in the dream he is still aliveand the ocean is still blue. The moment I knowI am able to fly is when I see the tree, the leavesswaying, and I jump. Why do I dream of you?Why do I dream in six languages but in eachone there are suns floating in a midnight sky?There are three doors named Desire. There isone olive tree full of silver fruit. Write the love,my dream says. I put my memories in a jar.I confess, my secrets glowing like bones onblack paper. I dream that everything is romantic,even the ghost in my throat. I dream fearlessand hopeful and am woken by kisses in a house oflove and flowers. It isn’t a dream anymore. I pullthe quiet drawing of a cabin through the frame,open the door, and there you are, dreaming of me.