Orange dreams 11/20/10

You awaken and you realize you have been dreaming, in close-up, of oranges. The bright skin, a furrowed landscape of fragrant hemispheres, a topography of resinous oils, tiny ridges and arroyos. You eat an orange, thinking of the tang of him, the bite of salt from skin that has been working, straining to bring you something, life, a latticework to climb, some kind of earth. But really it is an aftertaste you remember, and you lick a part of your own arm, as if his scent, his imprint lingers. Your own fragrant resins rise, and you notice that skin is pocked by stars, hemispheres, resins, in a formation not so easily eroded. You remember the taste again, and it has marked the back of your throat, the salt, and you know that you will always recognize his scent, his touch.