“Before one can experience feelings of grief or loss, there must have been a genuine sense of attachment.” Dhillon Khosla
When I sleep, you visit. This is the only time. You grab my hand with forearm tattooed by rosary beads. You breathe your days into my neck which smells of Sunday morning church incense. You wrap your martial-arts-softball thick thighs around me like evening seat belt. You administer midnight medicine of your tongue, warmed all day by the oven of your mouth. You let me run my fingers through your hair, wild enflamed parentheses. You read me Neruda or the latest gender memoir. You tell me where I can’t touch you and then you touch me there. You extract all my salt hidden behind the window treatment of my eyes. You hear the loud footsteps of humans above us and the sirens outside my bedroom; you do not hear me mourn you. You remind me this is the last time. Final kiss on railroad track. Final shot of whiskey in bar so dark, I can barely find your freckles. You do not mention I will never eat the same again. You forget to remind me that there was always someone else who distracted your bones away. When I wake, you will haunt my breath. None of you will be remembered until I close my eyes.