Lucid, the one-sided
conversation began
with admissions of crazy

What was being said
would make no sense
to anyone else
besides the speaker.

He had come to recognize
a cycle of life and death;
sight to touch to love to
sudden departure.

And every time he wanted
to reach out, apologize,
let’s meet again,
something please

the darkness would swallow his words
and all that felt real
gathered in his stomach
as he chased forgetting again.

It was that cycle
he was able to escape,
the last time
with his brain in tow.

Setting her down,
he took her hand
he’d come to know
so intimately.

“This won’t make sense,” he said
“but we only exist in dreams.
Tell me how
I can find you in the real world.”

She breathed
but her lips never moved.
His own construct,
of course she understood

and of course she was silent.
There were no words,
for if he knew the words
there’d be no question.

Her face grew static, fuzzy
and the world fell apart,
broken up
by morning sun

dragging rested mind
too far up
to go back down
to process darkness.

But the weight of the mem’ries
keeps him tied to bed sheets,
fabric of the only world
he’ll know her precious love.