I keep seeing him, in gardenia scented dreams.
he’s trying to talk to me, but either I’m too dumb
to understand him, or he is speaking silence, mouth forming words
he wants to say or I want to hear, or both—
we had reached the asymptote of communication.
maybe I just don’t want to hear him again.
in one dream he’s standing beside me on a quiet lakeshore,
in another he’s sitting in front of me, table between our
open faces and the water lapping soundlessly as night.
I don’t know if I respond to him, if I’m even speaking
his language, no language, the language of moving away.
the language of goodbye—do I know enough of it to be fluent?
I want to understand you, I say,
while not meaning a single word. I don’t want to understand—
but why I am drawn to him looking at me
looking at him, blank as untouched snow.
dreams like these are just symptoms leftover
from trauma, I’ve heard; in time, they’ll fade
with panicked memories. how can I face him
in those dreams— what do I really want to say to him?
lying awake before blackberry melatonin-induced slumber,
I can faintly grasp it, a silver thread tied to a blue balloon.
maybe some day, I’ll forgive you.
Photo by Siora Photography on Unsplash
