I have a dream where you’re laid out outside
of a gas station, the asphalt is so cold, so rough
on your silky spine.
There is a hole in your chest and I am trying to fill it
with my hands, but they are so small.
You always loved them for that, but now
here you are, dying, and my hands are too small
to fix the broken dam.
My hands are growing soggy from being drenched
in blood, my fingers are slowly breaking off
and there isn’t anything else I can do.
I have a dream where you’re dying and I wake up
and you’re still dead.
You are a belly ache trying to rip my insides out
of me, a fever swallowing me whole,
the empty space in the back of my mouth
where the tooth is never going to grow back.
Keep telling me that you weren’t afraid.
Keep telling me that you’re okay wherever you are,
that when it rains it’s not because you are still
Your heart stops and trees are falling around us,
the world is bursting in flames,
your mother is screaming like lightning bolts
striking and I
have never heard a heavier silence
than this moment.