When I struggle to stretch my way out of a sweaty dream
where your presence shocks the breath out of me,
standing there with burly arms crossed across your chest,
glaring a hole through me and furrowing your forehead
as I cower across the room, the worst of our moments relived,
I can’t help but wonder if I could only erase bits of you
from my memory—your brother’s date of birth,
your dad’s middle name and favorite golf club,
the way your grandma taught you to make spaghetti—
maybe a month might pass by without me fighting
the ghost of you, resurfacing as dawn meets the day.
when memory is not our friend, excellent work.