I wrote a poem in my sleep last night.
It was about how we feign flexibility
just to hide our jealousy;
how a night of drinking is supposed to soothe years of neglect
and a day of headaches is supposed to pound out the sad.

I don’t remember the poem, but I remember it related to
your sorries and goodbyes.
It related to how they left just as quickly and silently as you did.

And I’m still waiting for them like an idiot,
waiting for the rain in the drought and the food in the famine.
As if I deserve some kind of closure that really doesn’t matter.