In a dream, I walk through the dark corridors of a house,
while a party rages on.
Something about you always reminds me of red cups and mistakes,
about the sunset of adolescence,
and our last autumn as children.
I sit down next to you.

I reach over and kiss your stubbled cheek,
and tell you that I’m sorry.
I don’t know what I’m sorry about,
because it was you that broke me,
but I apologize anyways.
“I’m sorry I’m like this,” I say,
I’m sorry that the way I want overflows,
and I’m sorry that I couldn’t hide it from you.

In a dream, I tell you how I really feel.
You are free from what is narrow,
I say, and that’s why it’s you.
I tell you how the wick of my body burns
under your hands made of matches;
and how it warms me from the inside.
There is no hell more glorious than loving you,
and you nod.
You know it too.

I don’t mention forgiveness,
because I don’t think I was ever really mad,
just pathetic with longing,
pathetic in the way that I would have stuck my two hands into my chest and pulled out my heart for you;
pathetic in the way that I would have bled myself dry for your touch.

I don’t mention her either,
or your talent for keeping other beds warm.
Does it really matter?
I just look at you,
that mouth, so delicately etched, so venomous,
those lips, that destroyed me,
your exceptional talent for loving and leaving.
There’s no hell more glorious than you,
no pill more bitter to swallow.
You know it too.