Last week a boy said to me before class,
“I had a dream about you the other night. We died in a car accident together.”
I drove with him once, in real life, the night he told me he hated being alive
and I wanted nothing more than to kiss the sentence off his lips.
One hand on the steering wheel like an itch – the night he could’ve run us off the road
In dreams we look for picnic blankets and cherry blossoms
and instead I brought you blood, a shattered windshield,
a bouquet of broken bones.
Like the pen that drains its ink in the middle of a thought
I am always running out of fuel and
I’m sorry I couldn’t get you someplace better.
I’m sorry we had to lay the blanket down here.
I’m sorry about the lack of cherry blossoms.
In reality I haven’t talked to that boy in weeks
but our dream selves are lying dead somewhere
hand-in-hand, staring sightless at the sky
and I will carry the weight of it with me always.
But anyway, it was just a dream.
Silly me. Silly us.
I told you once in a dream that I loved you.
You licked your thumb thoughtfully, flipped
through the pages of your dream oracle and mumbled
“Interesting. I wonder what that means.“