Sometimes it's clear to see
depression's grim script
playing in your mind.

So in my dreams
I am a writer
who rewrites those lines.

I'd sip tea and daydream:
What adventure
to take you on next?

Each sentence, some small joy.
I'd write you chapters on,
at long last, rest.

Your mind would be
my greatest work,
my Scarlet Letter.

Not to say you'd heal overnight,
but that with each page turned,
you'd feel better.

I'd allude to our pet cat,
and all the little things
that used to matter.

The prologue would shake out the dust,
turns the lights on;
we'd watch the moths scatter.

Under my pen name,
you'd smile again. You'd comb your hair,
without me asking.

I'd sob from joy as I type because
chapter six is two hundred pages
of just you laughing.

And of course, at the end,
I'd rewrite the part when
you stopped holding my hand.

With my ink in your veins,
we'd start a new story
with our unfinished plans.