I have a dream where you’re laid out outside
of a gas station. The asphalt digging into your milky spine
like crumbs of bread in butter.
There is a hole in your chest too big for me to fill.
My hands are small; even put together, it’s not enough.
I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s silly
to be sorry for having small hands and I know you
love them just the way they are, but now your lips
are turning pale, losing heat, and my hands are small.
Growing soggy from being soaked in blood.
My fingers slowly breaking off. Red
used to be my favorite color, now it makes me cry.
I have a dream where you’re dying and I can’t save you
and I wake up and my hands are still small,
and you’re still dead. A belly ache trying to rip
my insides out of me, a fever swallowing me whole,
the empty space in the back of my mouth
where the tooth is never going to grow back.
Were you afraid? Are you okay wherever you are?
When it rains
is it because you’re still bleeding somewhere?
I’m learning to hold things without dropping them.
Learning to not feel your heart stopping
in everything I touch. Your last breath was taken
looking at me, but I’m not the one who took it.
I know you wanted me to be the one. I wasn’t mad.
There was blood in your mouth and all I could say
was I’ll miss you enough for the both of us.
I’ll tell your mother I did my best. Her cries pierce
through my ears and I know nothing will soothe her,
but I’ll tell her anyway. Tell her I still wake up
sometimes and also think it was all just a nightmare.
I’ll learn to forgive my hands for being so small.
At least I promise or try.