the cold helps me remember.
at night, when i stare at a blank screen,
i pretend the warmth
is merely a distraction
from the pain that is imminent.
this is how we bleed:
the act alone is an inevitable threat.
you ask me, do you dream?
and i never know.
i tore the papers in two,
in four—
when i lose count,
i let the night air seep through me.
that's when i realize.
i think i saw you last night.
you were enveloped in white sheets.
the wall behind you was as pale as your face.
you were murmuring;
we were both asleep. but
i was there, and i saw
you huddled in white,
your breaths barely audible, and
your temples streaked with sweat.
i saw you,
and you didn't see me.
when i woke up,
i gasped and hid under the covers.
you never saw me.
you never saw me.
the cold makes me remember.
even in the dream,
you were alive.
you were real.
in the dream,
i was cold. and i remembered
you do not know
i was there.
just like now—the cold is in me,
the blank screen glaring at my face,
and you in my mind.