Music, jagged edges, shredding sleep.
Visceral emotion, dredged up, thrown open
like a fresh wound flesh wound.
The dream, so real, slowly bleeding away
replaced with morning light, and
realization of the dream.
Scratching, stretching, remembering.
She’s still dead. In the dream
I could touch her. Hold her.
She sang. Her voice warm, and
beautiful suddenly raw with pain.
Suddenly screaming like a buzz saw.
And awake. I don’t know what that means.
Maybe nothing. Maybe just my wounded mind.
Guilt. I could have been better, loved her, more.
No. Guilt is the salt in the wound.
No guilt. No reason. I loved her all I could.
And she, me. We were good. We were right.