Every birth is a book. Each breath is a page. Deep breaths are between three and seven pages. Deep conversations can make chapters. Some other conversations are cups of coffee that soak and stain.

We are born, and we all breathe the same air, and our tongues bench press that breath in endless reps and our mouths meet many other mouths. And though the pieces of page that come out when tongues talk don’t say much, we flex our tongues and our tongues say, “Look! Look! Look at how much I can lift!”

And that’s fine. Not every paragraph can be a chapel, or a room in a chapel. And, like this, we lose sight of the page for the part. And I find myself on page 457 and see you are way over in Appendix B. I wonder if that even counts as a page, and while I flip to the back, you fall asleep and the book falls from your hands to the floor, and every dream is pile of leaves.

In one pile we cobble a path. You smile your silent sin. I lift you into my arms. Your name in your accent in my mouth sounds like a roomful of pillowy Play-Doh pouring out when I say it. I walk. You weigh like a cloud. We hit a fence, my muscles cement.

In another dream, I am so mad at you that my fingers grow fingers of their own, and each fingers’ hand holds something gold. One little hand has a fiery temple, the other a barking knife. They alternate like this: Temple. Knife. Temple. Knife. Temple.

And I’m wondering what is this life when I plunge my golden, prayerful hands into your chest and you explode.

That dream made many many pages, and in the morning your book had grown.