We were just cuddling affectionately. I guess you could call it spooning, but there were boundaries. After all, we’re friends. I said something cutting, per usual, and he nuzzled my back like a cat. I kept talking—about what I can’t remember. He then planted a kiss on my lips. I said Wait no we’re at a funeral. You have a girlfriend—this is so wrong! As quickly as I said this, we are fucking. I’m on top and I peek up, he was complimenting me—imparting thoughts like goddess or freak—and I wanted to hear and remember these compliments completely. But then I remembered we are still at this funeral. And it feels better than I ever expected it could. I use my hair. My hair was really long—way longer than it is when I stand before you today. My hair was a sexual position; I’d send it ahead of me to feel his body with. I’d wrap it around and around him, he was my moth, and then I rolled him out of me like we were bowling. I felt thankful, but also more connected to him. Then I looked up and saw a giant statue of Apollo, Greek god of Poetry and oracles and sun and light. And I’m like shit. This can’t get better. I was also vaguely trying to remember whose funeral it was, but I can’t, so we switched positions, and we’re kissing, and I kept looking back at the statue through fine wisps of my own hair. Traditionally Greek, with the arms open and pointing like he’s directing traffic, possibly modeled after Apollo Belvedere (ca. 120–140 ad). One foot solid in the ground, the other pointing down into the ground. Symbolic of the fact that you know, I’m here but also not here. His hips were checked kinda sexy, kinda captured in motion. His legs were rather like trunks of old growth trees. And where does this god do his thinking? And how does this statue direct traffic, gesticulate where he is? A blue cloth draped around his shoulders. I notice little details, the way we talked about in my lucid dreaming workshop, how time had weathered the form. The statue was gross, dirt on marble, city grime on marble, time on marble, smooth. How my grandma’s bathtub and this statue had similarly exposed stone filaments. I have no idea how I’m still dreaming and still fucking. We kissed deeply and I felt things here in the dream that I feel and had felt in real life, I’m embarrassed to say, but I’ll tell you—really this dream is what I’d wanted for a while. They call it wish fulfillment on the internet. But finally I saw and felt in his dick and in his eyes that this, too, is what he wants. He’s the one every horoscope has been about for years. Is this funeral over? he asked and I say it’s almost over. And then you have to go back to her. He replies I know I know but I want you. I say It’s too painful. Then I turn over and doze, and when I wake up he’s sent me three emails. In the first one he told me that I’m a brilliant writer. In the second one he told me I’m a goddess who rocked his world. And the last one, well, I kept clicking and clicking on, and it never opened. I kept clicking on it and it would not open. I keep clicking. The statue was huge and wide. I stared at the draping cloth, its royal blue light in my hands. A royal blue for an empire gone. I always find out about you before you die.